


Let's Go Break The Law One More Time

by Kaleran



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Javert swears a lot, M/M, Valjean is a high-profile art thief and Javert hates him, White Collar Crime, artist!Valjean, except Valjean's been smitten with him for ages but whatever, gregarious use of post-its, passing mention of Amis, passing mention of Chabouillet, passing mention of Eponine, passing mention of Grantaire, passing mention of Marius, passing mention of Thenardier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-03-12 20:30:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13555023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaleran/pseuds/Kaleran
Summary: Theft, forgeries, post-it note conversations, and a rivalry that's spanned decades. Jean Valjean has avoided arrest for nearly ten years since he was first released from prison after being arrested the first time, and he is the number one annoyance to one Detective Inspector Javert. And then Valjean breaks into his apartment to give him a painting. And then he continues breaking into his apartment to leave post-it notes on his refrigerator and gifts on his coffee table that Javert throws away at the first opportunity. And then Javert doesn't know what to think.Javert hates his life and he hates art, but most of all he hates Valjean.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Major inspiration is Leverage, but I definitely stole a major plot device from White Collar. Title is a quote from Leverage's pilot episode and I would die for that show. 
> 
> As always, thank you Sewers of Paris discord for putting up with me yelling about my own fic and finding my auto-correct errors. 
> 
> Work is complete in its entirety and will post once a week on Fridays (if I remember).

Javert doesn’t understand art.

In theory, yes, he can appreciate the skill of an artist who can capture a moment in all its precise lines and colors on canvas. Yes, he can see how the ability to recall and sketch a face could prove useful, but he doesn’t truly understand art. A painting has never once ensnared his attention for longer than a passing glance nor stirred emotions in his breast. No, Javert has long left the appreciation of art to others. In fact, over the years, he’s decided that he hates art quite a bit.

—

“Put the Rembrandt on the ground and your hands above your head!”

The thief does no such thing and turns the corner, leaving Javert to curse and chase after him. He has a feeling he knows this thief, and, with climbing irritation, knows he will not catch him tonight. Broad shoulders and a flash of white hair have his suspicions confirmed and his teeth grinding together in a fury.

Indeed, after a fruitless chase through private gallery hallways and then out into the city alleys, Javert manages to lose him in what should have been a dead-end.

“Damn it,” Javert curses, finally giving up and catching his breath against a wall. Fucking Valjean. How a man of his age could possibly be so quick on his feet is a mystery to Javert and likely always will be, even when he someday succeeds in putting Valjean in prison for a long, long time.

He makes his way back to the scene of the crime, snarling and cursing the whole way. It had to be Valjean. A private gallery of a wealthy CEO fits Valjean’s style. The Rembrandt would have been replaced with a forgery, surely, with some terrible note on the back with yet another taunting message.

Sure enough, when the forgery was removed from the wall, a yellow post-it with a ballpoint sketch adhered to the back of the painting. It is of Javert himself, holding his firearm with a flag that says ‘ _BANG_ ’ coming out the muzzle. Javert crumples the note before he can think better of it, rage building.

God, does he hate Valjean. He hates Valjean more than he hates art.

“Get this out of here!” he snaps to the few officers who managed to make it to the crime scene at this hour of the night.

The forgery- because it’s always a forgery with Valjean- will have to be scanned in to evidence along with the damned post-it note as soon as possible and alerts sent out to watch for the stolen original to resurface at some auction or another. And then the paperwork will begin, along with insurance claims and everything else. Tomorrow, Javert will have to meet with the owner of the stolen painting and won’t that be a joy? Every rich CEO Valjean steals from is always a demanding asshole who tests Javert’s limited patience.

Javert glances at the crumpled post-it in his hand and his temple throbs. It’s going to be a long night.

—

It is entirely Valjean’s fault that Javert ended up working in art recovery. One minute, Valjean was an average thief. The next, he had stolen a Monet and Javert was still the detective assigned to his case. It was logical at the time, as Javert had been the lead detective on the pursuit of Valjean for several months and had thrown himself into the case with everything he had to prove himself worthy of the promotion. Unfortunately for him, Valjean continued stealing art instead of cars and forging paintings instead of documents.

By the time Javert finally arrested Valjean several years later, he had a solid knowledge of nineteenth century art and had changed departments three times. His superiors refused to transfer him back, and so Javert has long since resigned himself to chasing down art thieves and muddling through insurance fraud and cursing out one Jean Valjean at any given opportunity.

There are quite a lot of opportunities and he takes advantage of every single one.

—

It’s rare when Javert is able to intercept Valjean’s thievery, but always satisfactory.

“Valjean,” Javert growls, again leveling his gun. It’s months after the Rembrandt and in a private gallery in some rich man’s mansion. The painting Valjean has come to steal tonight has been removed and stored safely while Javert’s own post-it note, a white one simply saying ‘ _Bang_ ’, hangs in its place.

“Detective Inspector,” Valjean says with the slightest hint of a smile. Javert sneers at him.  “How are you this fine night?”

“Put your hands above your head.”

“Do you not want to see my copy? I must admit I’m quite proud of this one—“

“Oh, shut up,” Javert interrupts. “No one cares about your damn Van Gogh forgery, especially not me. ”

“And after I went through the trouble of acquiring period pigments for you!” Valjean says, looking quite disappointed.

Javert very much wishes he was close enough to punch that insufferable look off his face.

“I’m touched,” Javert deadpans. “It’s just paint. Who gives a shit.”

“It’s very important!” Valjean insists. “Why, could you imagine a Van Gogh in greyscale? If I didn’t use the same pigments he did—“

“Valjean, I do not care,” Javert says. “Hands behind your fucking head.”

“How can you not care?” Valjean asks. It’s not the first time they’ve had this conversation and he doesn’t move to do as he’s told. “I know you’ve seen a Van Gogh in person. He was a master of color; how can you—”

“It’s just paint on canvas, Valjean. A child could do that,” Javert snaps. “Hands behind your head! I will pull this trigger if I have to ask you again!”

Valjean does not obey and Javert ends up firing a round into the floor at Valjean’s feet out of sheer irritation.

“How can you not care about art?” Valjean asks, even as he takes off running. He escapes from the roof before Javert can answer and is somehow immediately gone into the night.

Valjean is annoyingly good at evading arrest and, when Javert returns to assess the damage that he did to the floor that he’ll surely end up paying for himself, the white post-it is mysteriously missing off the wall.

—

Javert didn’t go into the police to chase down scribbles and paint splatters that are somehow worth millions of dollars. He’s never been to an art gallery unless it’s a crime scene. His tiny apartment has bare white walls and secondhand grey furniture and it has never once bothered him how plain his living space is. He has never in his life doodled in the margins of his notebook and all his pens have plain black ink. His closet holds white shirts and black ties and a battered grey coat. The brightest thing he owns is a navy jacket with FBI emblazoned in large yellow letters on the back, and he hates it.

When Javert entered the force, he never expected to be working in art. Even so, he still makes arrests and enforces justice and isn’t entirely useless. If it weren’t for Valjean forcing him to specialize in art of all things, he could be on the street taking down murders and drug lords and all the things he envisioned himself doing since he first dedicated himself to justice.

So yes, Javert very much hates art and would much rather have the world be organized in black and white without the distraction of colors, and it is only partly out of sheer spite.

—

Valjean’s next hit is specifically geared to Javert, which irritates him more than usual. It’s another Van Gogh, one of the sunflower paintings that Javert finds even more boring and pointless than the landscapes. Javert finds his name in the forgery on the vase in paint as if it had been carefully written out with the point of a needle, along with the entirety of William Blake’s poem, _Ah! Sunflower_. If the damn thing wasn’t evidence, Javert would be tempted to burn it. He’s always tempted to burn Valjean’s forgeries.

He smokes half a dozen cigarettes instead and tries to stop thinking about why Valjean would even care that Javert hates art. Valjean is a criminal. Valjean shouldn’t care. Valjean has no business bothering him with why he should care about a painted pot of damned sunflowers. The smoke in his lungs burns and doesn’t make him feel any better.

—

When Valjean was finally released, after being kept in prison for several years longer due to poor behavior, the first thing he did was break parole and steal a collection of silver.

The second thing he did was drive Javert to several nights of heavy drinking because Jean fucking Valjean couldn’t leave him well enough alone and Javert was once again assigned to his case.

Because he was already so familiar with him, Javert’s superiors justified. Because Javert had never gotten rid of a personal binder full of evidence of Valjean’s past crimes, which he had only kept as a symbol of his success over his first big arrest. Because every other competent officer was busy with something more pressing than a released criminal at the time, Javert finally figured out several weeks later.

So Javert tore after Valjean again, except now Valjean was different. He no longer relied on violence or his strength to burgle galleries and he has never since stolen from a public museum. He refined himself and his art to where it occasionally took better experts than Javert months to realize a painting had been replaced with an extremely good forgery. Valjean became more careful, and then later more reckless at the same time when he started leaving little messages addressed to Javert specifically in his forgeries or with those damn post-it notes he’s become so fond of and Javert hates so much. Every time Javert goes to arrest him, Valjean acts cordial or even friendly and treats it as a game of cat and mouse that Javert can never win. Even when he does manage to put him in handcuffs, Valjean somehow escapes before he can be transferred to prison.

It has been over a decade of this, with Valjean resurfacing every few months before disappearing once more, and someday Javert is going to lose it completely and actually put a bullet through his chest and it will entirely be Valjean’s fault.

—

Three months after Valjean wrote his name into Van Gogh forgery, a Degas is stolen from a museum. Valjean hasn’t stolen from a museum funded by the state since Javert first arrested him, but Valjean does have a fondness for Degas. Javert investigates it himself with no backup on a hunch. Two days later, he finds the Degas mysteriously returned in the middle of the night and Valjean fleeing from the scene.

“You don’t steal from museums,” Javert says once he corners him, for once hesitating to raise his gun. He does, however, shine his flashlight directly at Valjean’s face with no regard for Valjean’s eyesight.

It doesn’t make sense. Valjean hasn’t changed his MO for years and Javert’s curiosity is overriding the usual anger that arises in him whenever he and Valjean are in the same room. Thieves don't steal one night and replace it with a forgery several days later. That would simply be idiotic.

“Ah, good evening Inspector,” Valjean says with an oddly strained smile, wincing at the bright light. “How are you this fine night?

Javert narrows his eyes. “Answer the question, Valjean.”

“Technically, you didn’t ask one.”

Javert grits his teeth together and reminds himself he isn’t even supposed to be here. The museum night shift assumed he was here on official investigation business, but his superiors did not approve this. He can’t go attracting attention.

“Why are you here, Valjean?” He snaps out. “Did you steal the Degas?”

“I returned it,” Valjean answers simply.

“You are a thief,” Javert growls. “Thieves do not return what they’ve stolen.”

“I was not the one who stole it, Inspector,” Valjean says. He gives in at last and shields his eyes with a hand. “Can you please shine your flashlight elsewhere?”

That doesn’t answer any of his questions. In fact, Valjean’s answers are only serving to infuriate him.

“Then how did you get your hands on it to return, assuming the one now hanging there is not a forgery?” Javert hisses, his grip on his flashlight tightening to the point of pain. He doesn’t make any effort to keep the beam out of Valjean’s eyes.

“Run your tests. It is the original.” Valjean actually looks serious and Javert almost considers believing him. Only almost. “I learned that it was stolen, and I simply tracked down the real thief and persuaded him to give it to me to return to the museum.”

“Persuaded?” Javert asks incredulously. “Thieves cannot simply be persuaded, Valjean! I would be out of a job if I could just _ask_ criminals to stop being criminals.”

“There may have been a transfer of funds involved,” Valjean admits, looking somewhat sheepish. “He did need the money. Desperately.”

Javert wants to punch him. Desperately.

“Are you saying that you spent your own money, which is probably stolen or the profits of one of your other thefts, to purchase an original Degas only to return it here with no strings attached?”

“Ah, yes?” Valjean says hesitantly.

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” Javert snarls at him. “Because only an idiot would believe that story!”

“My money is clean,” Valjean defends. “I do have a perfectly legal business, Javert.”

This is news to him. “What could you possibly be doing?”

“Art, of course,” Valjean says simply.

“Oh, art, _of course_ ,” Javert mocks, sneering at him. “Give me one reason why I should believe you for any of this bullshit.”

“Because it is the truth!”

“Criminals do not tell the truth! Why should I not arrest you here right now for the original theft?”

Voices drift down the hall, silencing both of them. Javert swears and Valjean look at him in startled amusement.

“You aren’t authorized to be here, are you?” Valjean asks.

“Coming from you, that’s fucking rich,” Javert mutters. Valjean is suppressing a smile, badly, and Javert scowls at him. “My superiors didn’t believe me when I thought you may return with a forgery or one of your damn post-it notes.”

“I never thought I would see you breaking the rules,” Valjean says with a tone that nearly borders on fondness.

Javert hates him.

The voices are getting closer and now Javert can see the light from their flashlights illuminating the halls.

“Fuck you,” Javert growls. “I was right, after all.”

“I’ll keep your secrets, Inspector,” Valjean says with another infuriating smile.

Then, without warning, he snatches the flashlight out of Javert’s hands, shoves him aside and takes off down the hallway.

“Valjean, don’t you dare steal my flashlight!” Javert shouts, recovering and chasing after him. “That’s government property!”

“I’ll return it to you!” comes Valjean’s reply, and soon Javert loses him to the maze of the museum’s hallways.

The next morning he finds his flashlight on the roof next to the skylight, a yellow post-it note stuck to the side saying ‘Return to Detective Inspector Javert, FBI’ on it with a smiley face acting as punctuation. He resists crumpling this one, half-surprised Valjean actually kept his word.

The Degas Valjean returned is in fact the original, and now Javert doesn’t have any idea what to think of him. He keeps the yellow post-it note and isn’t sure why. It becomes the only spot of color in his apartment, pinned to his refrigerator with a small black magnet. In the mornings, Javert will scowl at it while waiting for his coffee to brew from his half-broken machine and wonder why Valjean would bother returning his flashlight at all.

—

Occasionally, and always purely by chance, an investigation into one of Valjean’s thefts reveals illegal activities by the the owner of said stolen painting. It’s almost always some sort of serious fraud and Javert is nearly certain that those arrests are what keeps him sane through everything Valjean does to irritate him. Embezzlement, bank fraud, money laundering, et cetera. One memorable time, Javert removed Valjean’s forgery from the wall to find a truly impressive stash of heroin on a hidden shelf and was able to arrest the man for possession on the spot.

Javert never says anything to Valjean about these arrests, but occasionally after one of them Javert will find an anonymous thank you card on his desk with a print of one of the kinds of nineteenth-century paintings Javert knows Valjean is fond of, if only because he steals them. He has no idea how or why Valjean does it, but it can only be him. No one would have any reason to send him a thank you card, for Javert is not a nice man. Javert has no family and no friends who would send him such things. In fact, he would consider his rivalry with Valjean the longest relationship of any kind he’s ever had-- if he could stand thinking about how many decades he’s been chasing Valjean long enough to have the thought. He prefers being alone and so he is always alone with only his work to comfort him.

The thank you cards are technically evidence, so he keeps them in the thick binder full of all the other evidence Javert can’t directly link back to Valjean. They look significantly out of place amongst all the reports and notes about his forgeries, but it’s not like anyone visits him to see the aged binder on his coffee table.

—

The thing with the Degas won’t leave Javert’s mind. Criminals are criminals, and Valjean is no exception. Valjean has no regard for order or for the law, and yet he went through the trouble of returning the Degas and even paying for it with his own money if Valjean was telling the truth that night like he insisted. There is nothing he could possibly gain from returning a painting, especially when he returned it in the middle of the night. He claimed no reward money and earned no fame for that act.

So why did he do it?

Javert spends several nights pacing his apartment and glaring at the damn post-it note on his refrigerator searching for answers. He does not receive any. No matter how he approaches it, Valjean appears to have gone through all that trouble simply because he did not approve of stealing from a museum. Stealing a painting that he _likes_ from a museum.

It distracts Javert for a month before he manages to force it out of his mind. The painting is returned, and Valjean still has an outstanding warrant for his arrest, and Javert has stared at an image of the damn painting for so long he’s seeing oil-painted ballerinas in his sleep. He doesn’t see what Valjean sees in it, nor what anyone sees in it. It’s simply paint.

It’s almost a relief when Javert arrests a different art thief who’s forgery wasn’t quite good enough, only to find out he was the original thief of the Degas Valjean returned.

“Of course Valjean had a hand in this!” Javert snarls when he finds out.

“Sorry?” the thief asks in confusion.

“Jean Valjean, the man who bought the damn Degas off you only to see it returned,” Javert explains in a growl. “About fifty, white hair, broad shoulders, infuriatingly persistent? Was he going to buy this one from you too with his mysterious funds?”

“Uh, not that I know of,” the man- boy, really, he must be in his early twenties at best- says. “How do you know him?”

“Because he’s been a thorn in my side for the last twenty years,” Javert growls.

The boy is very forthcoming about Valjean as long as Javert makes no references to how he’s still going to throw him in prison. Valjean paid a truly absurd amount of money for the Degas, apparently, and insisted on giving him extra once he found out it was to pay for cancer treatment. A friend of the boy’s, although Javert really can’t bring himself to care. Theft is still a crime, no matter the reason.

“He’s a nice guy,” the boy says, and Javert scoffs immediately. Criminals are not nice. Valjean, especially, is not nice. “Told me off for stealing from a museum, that art should be seen by all and not just by the corrupt and the wealthy. He made a lot of good points.”

“So this time you stole from the CEO of a pharmaceutical company,” Javert says, not impressed. Valjean shouldn’t be rubbing off on kids. These kids should be getting legal jobs and not running around stealing expensive property from others. Valjean is a damn menace.

“Duh,” the boy says, and Javert is reminded why he hates kids. “Same guy who’s charging Bahorel out the ass for chemo. Fuck that guy. He shouldn’t be profiting off of my friend’s suffering. Eat the rich.”

A vague itching idea starts to come to him, but he slams down on it before it can grow into something more. Instead, he forces his face into a scowl and finishes the relevant paperwork to send this thief to a holding cell. He resolutely doesn’t think about how many times he’s arrested the people that Valjean stole from. Such an idea is dangerous to his entire way of thinking.

He leaves early with long steps, and walks the streets with no thought to where he is going.

—

It has been a very long time since Javert has thought outside the law.

—

“Valjean.”

“Yes, Inspector?”

He is tired. The Degas thing has not left his mind no matter how much he tries to avoid thinking about it. Valjean is here, in a goddamn private gallery once more to steal another goddamn painting, and Javert is tired.

They watch each other for a long while.

“Why do you do this?” Javert asks eventually. He has not raised his flashlight nor his firearm, instead leaving the two of them in the dim light of a darkened gallery and his arms hanging limply at his sides.

“Because it is the right thing to do,” Valjean answers.

“Stealing is not right,” Javert responds automatically. His heart isn’t in it.

“I’ve done my research,” Valjean says. “The owner of this painting has raped or sexually assaulted over twenty women that I know of. He has never once been brought to justice, instead paying or threatening his victims into silence. I plan to use the money from this painting to give them the support they need to face him in court. It is justice, Inspector, and it is the only kind I can give.”

Javert is silent. He does not know what to think. Stealing is against the law but Valjean’s cause is noble in order to punish another who has committed crimes. This revenge is justice. They have the same cause.

He is so very tired.

“Do as you will,” he says, and then he walks away.

He has never once walked away from anything in his life, instead digging his claws in and fighting his way to where he is now. There has never been a time where he has surrendered and he never once allowed compromise. Not until today.

—

Javert was seven years old when he decided he was going to be a police officer.

The foster homes he lived in never once treated him with kindness. He was an asset, a way to get government funds, never a child to be cared for. His mother was in and out of prison and he has never known his father, which made him a prime target for the older kids to beat on him. Javert fought back of course, vicious as a wolf even then. There was no respect for him, Javert, whose given name was assigned by the state and never once felt like his own.

He was never a child. There was no opportunity to be a child. He observed the gang fights and the drug addicts and constantly had to watch his own back. There was never a chance to become something more than he was surrounded with and he hated it. It was stifling and oppressive and wrong.

He wanted to change it, to punish those who steal and protect those who could not protect themselves. He decided, after seeing too many innocents caught in the crossfire, that he would not submit to this. There were only two paths for someone like him: to become a criminal like most of those around him, or to claw his way to something respectable and enforce justice.

Never once did he consider being anything in between.

—

He keeps to himself for several days after his confrontation with Valjean, not even leaving his apartment to go to work. His phone rings constantly until he smashes it to pieces against the wall and his inbox becomes choked with increasingly concerned emails. None of it matters. He paces his small, silent apartment lost in thought. Time becomes irrelevant and he has no idea when he last ate because everything tastes like ash in his mouth. When at last he grows tired of white walls and smoking out the open window, he shrugs on his coat and lets his feet guide him into the night.

Valjean is a criminal and yet he is just. Javert can’t remember how many people he’s arrested due to Valjean’s thefts. It’s brilliant, if Javert is honest, to steal a painting to lead Javert into the home of someone who has committed crimes. He doesn’t even require a warrant if he’s invited inside. He can admire that, even if Valjean is still a thief. He has been a thief for decades, as long as Javert had known him, and never once did Javert see the justice of his crimes.

In what other ways has he been blind? Is it still wrong to steal from the unjust? Has every crime Valjean committed since his release a decade ago had purpose? Looking back, Javert can understand why Valjean never hated him as much as he hated Valjean. He was an accomplice, the means of arresting the people that Valjean saw as deserving of his wrath. Somehow, opposites as they may be, they are, were, partners in this.

He comes to a stop on a bridge overlooking the Hudson. The city lights drown out the stars and he stares into the murky water below. He thinks of the boy who stole to pay for his friend’s cancer treatment. Is that just or was he simply desperate? What truly makes a crime worth punishing?

What does that make him for punishing those who take revenge on the unjust?

The water is black below him and he stands in the cold contemplating for long minutes that turn to hours. He’s never before second guessed the law before and it feels like the world he knew is crumbling around him. The wind chills him to the bone and yet he stays with his hands on cold metal rails. Maybe he isn’t the sword of justice he thought he was. Maybe his life has no purpose in this new world he sees.

There are no witnesses as he hoists himself over the railing and stands with his heels on the bridge and nothing to stop him from letting go and falling. There is only the slightest bit of fear in how terrifyingly far the fall is to the river below. Mostly he feels numb, and not only from the cold. He looks down past his shoes that hang over the side and into the dark. Even the streetlights above have no reflection on the water.

He stares into the void below him, ready to fall, and contemplates. There are other cases besides Valjean he could solve, of people truly taking advantage of others for their own gains. He’s seen how greed can corrupt the wealthy first hand, if only because Valjean has shown him. There is still use for him. Maybe. Not as much as there was, but it is something. He can learn to adapt to this new world he sees. He must, or he must fall.

When he arrives back at his apartment, he falls into bed with his coat still on his shoulders and sleeps without dreams.


	2. Chapter 2

He’s surprised that he was missed. People he had only briefly spoke with in the office smile at him and it is increasingly bizarre. He isn’t used to be wanted without being useful. After a brief questioning, his superiors grant him a replacement phone and asked why he left without notifying anyone for several days.

“Personal crisis,” he answers. “It will not happen again.”

There are no inquiries after that and he returns to work, not feeling quite as comfortable as he once did.

—

It’s nearly a month later that he returns to his apartment to find that someone has broken in. It isn’t hard to deduce when the first thing he sees is a painting that still smells faintly of turpentine and oil on his table leaning against the wall. Nothing else has been touched save for this unasked for gift.

It’s of himself, of the night he stood on the bridge. He recognizes his long coat and bristly sideburns that barely catch the light of the painted street lamp above him. The painting has him nearly backlit by the yellow light, gold outlining his shoulders and his hands which grip the railing. The water below is dark and swirling and the artist has rid the skyline of buildings to instead paint the stars above him.

He wants to hate it. Art has never had a purpose to him, except now he can’t stop staring at this portrait of his own internal conflict. The stars are beautiful and the river is as dark as he remembers it. His painted figure is nearly radiant by the single street lamp above him, drawing attention and making him look like someone who isn’t contemplating suicide despite his position on the very edge of the bridge. He looks at it for long minutes, struck silent by this tribute to himself by someone who clearly respects him.

In the corner, barely noticeable, is Jean Valjean’s signature.

He doesn’t have the strength to take it to evidence as he should, to add yet another count of breaking and entering to Valjean’s record. Instead he simply looks at it while he eats a meager dinner of leftover Chinese. It’s probably the only painting Valjean has ever signed with his actual name. Javert has never received a gift such as this before and he can’t bring himself to hate it.

It’s not until the next morning before he realizes that Valjean’s yellow post-it note from months ago that Javert hasn't yet removed from his refrigerator has been replaced with another.

‘ _I’m grateful you decided to live_ ,’ it says in Valjean’s handwriting.

Javert stares at that too until he is almost late for work.

He still changes his locks as soon as possible because Valjean has no fucking reason to be in his apartment.

—

First it was the painting. Then it was finding frozen meals he knows he didn’t make in his freezer. Then it was a plant on his windowsill next to his ashtray that Javert throws out at the first opportunity. Then it was a new coffee maker that actually works on a reliable basis, as well as a clean cup in his sink and a wet ring of coffee on his table. It’s already started to stain the wood and for some reason it’s that which annoys Javert the most.

It’s infuriating. He changes his locks three more times and gets a new security system and yet he continues to be burgled by someone who steals nothing and leaves him gifts. It can only be Valjean and Javert starts to hate him again.

‘ _Use a fucking coaster_ ,’ he writes on a note and magnets it to his fridge the second time Valjean’s cup leaves a mark on his table. He shouldn't have to resort to such things at all. This is ridiculous. This is beyond ridiculous. Valjean is all but stalking him and Javert is already trying to arrest him and yet he does this.

‘ _Do you prefer red or white wine?_ ’ appears a week later.

‘ _Stop breaking into my fucking apartment_ ,’ Javert writes back.

He finds a bottle of red wine on his counter and a bottle of white in his fridge. Both cost far more than what Javert would ever consider spending on alcohol, but he can’t simply throw out hundred dollar wines. He drinks them from a coffee mug by himself out of spite and hates Valjean. He doesn’t even like wine.

‘ _I hate you_ ,’ he leaves on the fridge. He’s not exactly sober when he writes it, but honestly he doesn’t care.

Valjean responds with a heart drawn on a post-it note.

Javert rips it in half to make a point.

Valjean tapes it back together.

Javert feeds it to his shredder before he can do anything more ridiculous.

‘ _Don’t buy me wine_ ,’ he writes.

Valjean doesn’t respond for two weeks and Javert thinks he’s finally free from him.

—

A painting goes missing from a private gallery of a wealthy man and is replaced with a forgery. It’s clearly the work of Valjean, especially when Javert finds a yellow post-it on the wall behind it.

‘ _I should have asked you to dinner first,_ ’ it says. Javert crumples it and shoves it in his pocket before anyone else can read it. It’s evidence, but Javert conveniently forgets to turn it in. It implies something that Javert isn’t ready to deal with; something that is blatantly untrue.

He returns to his apartment to a second binder on his coffee table and another damn post-it on his old one full of Valjean’s crimes that simply says, _‘I’m touched that you’ve kept notes all these years_.’

The binder Valjean left is, apparently, his research on the man he stole from. There’s easily enough evidence that Javert can find in the man’s home when he’s invited in to talk about his stolen painting. Javert is able to arrest him then and there. The thrill of arrest is greater than is annoyance that Valjean broke into his apartment again.

‘ _I don’t want you to buy me anything. I want you to leave me the fuck alone_ ,’ he writes and leaves on his fridge.

He receives a bouquet of flowers at his desk and an unsigned Georgia O’Keeffe thank you card. It gets him stares and not-so-subtle questions about his love life and Javert answers them with a terrible bark of laughter at the absurdity of it all. When gets back to his apartment, he leaves the flowers in his garbage so Valjean will know just how much he hates them.

‘ _Don’t buy me flowers_ ,’ he leaves on his fridge.

‘ _They’re gifts_ ,’ Valjean responds. There’s a border of roses in red ballpoint on the outside edge of the post-it note. Javert crumples it and leaves it on the counter for him to find.

‘ _I don’t want your “gifts”_ ,’ Javert answers. ‘ _Why are you bothering me?’_

Valjean does not respond for over a week, and even then he only leaves groceries in his refrigerator and another ring on Javert’s table despite the stack of coasters Javert specifically set out for him. The fact that Valjean seems to be incapable of using coasters irritates him to no end and his absence is welcomed. Another binder appears on his table a few weeks later and no post-it note accompanies it. He reads it, but is unable to investigate properly because the painting Valjean took hasn’t been reported as stolen. It’s more than likely Valjean’s forgery is too good and the switch hasn’t been noticed. He keeps the binder anyway, putting it in his nearly empty bookcase.

‘ _I can’t arrest people if I don’t have a reason to investigate_ ,’ he writes on a note on his fridge. It’s pathetic that this is the only way he knows how to communicate with Valjean. It’s even more pathetic that he’s started to look forward to these binders of evidence that appear on his coffee table and the arrests they’ll bring him.

‘ _Would you like me to gift you with arrests?'_   Valjean writes back.

Javert wars with himself about accepting Valjean’s offer. It’s exactly what they’re doing now, save for accepting feels like playing into Valjean’s hands. In the end, he has no choice. Valjean’s information is good, after all. It’s not like Javert can complain about arresting unjust people, even if they’re not Valjean.

‘ _If possible_ ,’ he answers. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, ‘ _Don’t make me arrest you,_ ’ if only because arresting Valjean would be counterproductive to both their goals right now.

The post-it is gone two days later.

—

He’s outside on a smoke break when Valjean scares the shit out of him by simply approaching him in public.

“What are you doing here?” Javert hisses after having a coughing fit from nearly inhaling his cigarette. “Are you asking me to throw you in jail?”

“I wanted to see you,” Valjean says simply, looking quite at ease loitering with Javert in front of a building full of FBI agents. He’s not even wearing any sort of disguise and his worn coat is an awful mustard color that immediately draws attention to him. For an artist, he has terrible taste in clothing. It’s the first time Javert has seen him in the daylight in years.

“Is breaking into my apartment not enough for you?” Javert mutters. He takes a long drag of his cigarette and nearly gives into the impulse to blow the smoke in Valjean’s stupid face.

“Smoking is bad for your health, Inspector,” Valjean says.

“So what?” Javert says, glaring at him.

“I thought that after your time on the bridge—“

“How do you even know about that?” Javert snaps before Valjean can even mention how he nearly killed himself. “Are you stalking me Val—“ He cuts himself off and glances about in case anyone recognized the name on his lips.

“You look more suspicious when you do that,” Valjean notes. “And no, I’m not. It was a coincidence. I would have approached you had you not already climbed over the railing. I was afraid you would have fallen if I startled you. Do you want to talk about it?”

“It’s none of your fucking business,” Javert snarls. “Why did you give me the painting anyway?”

“I wanted to,” Valjean says. “It was a powerful moment and you should always be reminded that you are strong enough to live.”

Javert doesn’t know what to say to that. He finishes his cigarette and grinds it into the pavement with his shoe.

“Keep me posted on... you know what I mean.” He turns to walk back inside, then pauses to add, “And if you insist on drinking out of _my_ mugs on _my_ table, learn to use a damn coaster.”

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean says, and even though Javert has his back to him he knows Valjean is smiling.

—

It’s a terrible day when Javert becomes accustomed to Valjean somehow entering his apartment when he’s out. He’s checked his locks and his security system and nothing seems out of the ordinary and yet Valjean still finds a way. How else could he leave ties of various colors and patterns on his bed or books of fiction on his coffee table or fresh fruit in his refrigerator?

The first time he wears one of Valjean’s gifted ties to work, one of the grey ones obviously, he gets several comments. He decides he doesn’t like getting comments and leaves them out for Valjean to take back. The books are also set out with a note saying that he doesn’t read and both things are whisked away when Valjean visits next. At least the fruit has a use. It isn’t terrible to eat healthy in the mornings instead of subsisting off of coffee alone. Valjean continues leaving a multitude of “gifts” in his apartment, most of which Javert either throws in the trash or demands Valjean take back.

‘ _Stop bringing me things_ ,’ Javert writes, pinning the note with a black magnet. Valjean had once brought magnets of various patterns and colors and Javert immediately threw them away.

‘ _I like giving you things_ ,’ Valjean’s note says. He also leaves a dark hat and a black hoodie, neither of which have any use to Javert.

‘ _Fuck off_ ,’ Javert replies.

—

There is seemingly no end to Valjean’s “gifts” and Javert becomes accustomed to walking into his apartment to see things he doesn’t want. There’s clothing and shoes, which Javert doesn’t even want to know how Valjean got his size, as well as watches and tie clips and cufflinks and endless other things that Javert never uses.

‘ _Stop trying to bribe me_ ,’ Javert writes after Valjean leaves him a truly ridiculous Rolex.

‘ _They’re gifts, not bribes_ ,’ Valjean replies.

‘ _That’s the same thing_ ,’ Javert writes.

‘ _I’m not asking anything of you_ ,’ Valjean’s next message says.

It’s true and Javert hates it.

‘ _If you’re not trying to bribe me, why are you doing this?'_

‘ _Because I want to.'_

Javert crumbles his last note and throws it away. Valjean is a criminal. Valjean shouldn’t be giving him things without asking anything in return. Valjean shouldn’t even be helping him in the first place, yet Javert continues to let him.

‘ _Don’t give me expensive shit_ ,’ he writes several days later.

Valjean leaves him several Tupperware containers of dinners in his refrigerator. Javert eats them for no other reason than he hates wasting food. They’re excellent, which is unfortunate. They also require almost no time to prepare and Javert grudgingly accepts that for once Valjean has given him something useful.

—

Valjean steals another painting and Javert receives another binder of evidence. It almost feels too easy to make arrests with Valjean’s help. Valjean does all the research and it’s almost suspicious when Javert knows exactly what he’s looking for to make said arrests. Is it so terrible that he’s allowing a known thief and the bane of his existence assist him in his duty? Some days it feels like it. Some days he hardly recognizes himself.

Valjean leaves him a post-it with a sketch of Javert standing in his kitchen on one of his binders. It must be from memory as Javert would have noticed Valjean standing in his sitting room sketching him, but Javert had never seen himself look so... so normal. So domestic. He stares at it for a day and a half before deciding he doesn’t hate it and moving it off to the side, leaving the center free for conversation.

‘ _I have more resources at my disposal_ ,’ Javert writes. ‘ _Leave me the names if you have them_.’

He feels restless while he waits for Valjean to leave him pages of evidence, even as he has other cases outside of Valjean’s thefts. It’s only fair that he assist in the research. He shouldn’t be letting a convicted felon do all the legwork for him, which is exactly what’s bothering him. Valjean is a criminal and yet he’s willingly working with Javert for the same goals. It hurts for Javert to think about and so he doesn’t do so often. He still hasn’t adjusted to this new world he now sees.

Valjean leaves him a list of names, as well as another drawing of Javert sitting on his couch looking annoyed. That one joins the first near the top of his refrigerator.

‘ _Why do you keep drawing me?_ ’ Javert asks on a post-it note.

‘ _I like drawing you_ ,’ Valjean responds.

Javert doesn’t know how to respond to that. He knows he’s nowhere near being called handsome, yet Valjean manages to make him look approachable in a way he never could be in life. Seeing himself through Valjean’s eyes is strange but not entirely unpleasant. He’s never thought himself worthy of such attention and seeing the evidence of how many details Valjean remembers about him knocks him off-kilter.

Then Valjean leaves him a bright multicolored scarf. Javert nearly burns it and reconsiders how much Valjean knows about him.

‘ _I don’t wear colors_ ,’ he writes on a note he pins to the scarf. ‘ _I hate colors_.’

Valjean takes two weeks to replace it with a similar scarf in greyscale and a sketch of him in the rainbow one, complete and painted in watercolor. Another note says, ‘ _I think you would look nice in colors_.’

The sketch is absurd and he throws it away. ‘ _I would look ridiculous,_ ’ he magnets to his refrigerator.

The grey scarf, however, isn’t awful and he keeps it. Valjean is probably smug about it, but it’s a nice scarf and Javert isn’t especially picky about where he gets his clothes. After everything Valjean has attempted to give him, it might be the second best gift. The first, of course, is the coffee machine, as Javert would be incapable of functioning without caffeine and his old one was on its last legs.

Valjean leaves him another sketch, this one in pencil in absurd detail. It’s of Javert, again, sitting on a bench in what looks like Central Park with a hat pulled low over his eyes and the grey scarf around his neck.

‘ _I don’t wear hats,_ ’ Javert writes.

He keeps the drawing despite his complaints.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all are so nice your comments give me life ;u; I've been just refreshing on my phone and rereading them even if I can't figure out how to respond until I go to post the next chapter ahhh I love every one of you <3 Enjoy Valjean ruining Javert's life more so than usual!!

His arrest rate spikes and starts to draw unfortunate attention. Valjean’s assistance and lack of arrest has been noticed, but not yet called into question.

“I believe I’ve found a pattern of who Valjean targets,” Javert says in an attempt to cover for the both of them. It isn’t a lie, yet he still feels guilty for averting attention. “He seems to be more of a vigilante than I originally thought.”

His superiors aren’t pleased with him, even as Javert has proven time and time again that the people Valjean steals from are deserving of arrest. Valjean has been a wanted criminal for too long, even if he isn’t nearly as active as other known thieves. Javert hides his curled fists behind his back and digs his fingernails into his palms instead of showing his frustration on his face.

—

‘ _I need to catch you stealing something_ ,’ Javert leaves on his refrigerator.

He paces restlessly attempting to think of a solution to avert suspicion. It feels wrong to deceive his superiors like this. He’s never disobeyed his betters in his life, and now he’s risking his job for a criminal he’s chased for nearly two decades. Valjean has suddenly become important to him, and not only because he aids in taking down the corrupt and solving injustice. Somehow, the notes left on his refrigerator and the endless gifts and the drawings and the damn thank you cards he still receives at work have made him care about Valjean. Javert hasn’t cared for anyone in his life. Even his assigned partners from work are hardly even acquaintances. It’s an entirely new experience for him and it worries him.

Valjean does not show evidence of visiting for nearly two weeks and Javert starts to become concerned. He stares at the painting Valjean made for him for long hours and finds himself distracted, thinking of things that could possibly keep Valjean from visiting. Such thoughts are pointless yet he can’t stop himself from thinking them. He doesn't even want Valjean in his apartment.

—

It’s late when Valjean finally visits. There’s a rapid knock on his door and Javert answers it to see the most irritating man he knows. Valjean doesn’t even glance at him before he pushes his way inside like he owns the place.

“What are you doing here?” Javert snaps irritably. He was about to settle down with his computer to relax and watch the news and Valjean just blew that plan out of the water.

Valjean is clearly not here to discuss their strange partnership. There are dark circles under his eyes and true fear on his face that Javert hasn’t seen since the first time he arrested him. His white hair is in disarray and Valjean runs a hand through it, messing it further.

“I need your help,” Valjean says in a rush. “I don’t know who else to go to and I can’t publicly go to the police—“

“What the hell are you talking about?” Javert interrupts. “Since when do you come to me for help?”

“I got a letter,” Valjean says, retrieving a much distressed paper from his pocket. His hands are shaking. “It’s more or less a ransom note, see?”

Javert yanks the paper out of Valjean’s hands so he can actually read it. “Are you being threatened?” he asks, eyes skimming the page.

“He has Cosette,” Valjean says. “My daughter. What if he hurts—“

“You have a kid?” Javert asks incredulously. “Why the fuck don’t I know about this?”

“I adopted her under a different name,” Valjean explains, waving it off as if it’s not important. Javert can’t help but wonder how many aliases Valjean has that he doesn’t know about. “She doesn’t know my real name nor what I do. It’s kept her safe.”

He should arrest Valjean right now for breaking and entering. He should tell his superiors about this. He should turn Valjean away. There are a great many things he should do, yet he does none of them.

“Give me details,” he says.

Euphrasie “Cosette” Fauchelevent is sixteen years old and was adopted at the age of nine. Her mother was a friend of a friend who was diagnosed with a lethal case of influenza too late and died despite Valjean’s attempts to fund her treatment. Soon after, Cosette was lost to the foster system and ended up with the Thénardier family who physically and verbally abused her. Valjean managed to track her down and adopted her through less than legal means and several false aliases, but Mr. Thénardier was not happy about letting Cosette go.

“Somehow he knows what I did before,” Valjean says. “How I forged registration papers and stole identities. He sent me that letter after Cosette went missing and is demanding a large sum of money and several passports with false names, and wants them ready by next week. He said if I went to the police he would harm Cosette and hand me over to the authorities.”

“So you came to me,” Javert says incredulously. “Valjean, you do realize I _am_ the police.”

“You already know what I do,” Valjean waves off. It’s irritating how he keeps assuming Javert will continue tolerating him. “Thénardier is a criminal in his own right. I don’t want him to have the funds and the means to leave the country. He has my daughter, Javert. I can’t lose her.”

Javert runs a hand over his face. “This is so far out of my jurisdiction,” he mutters.

Valjean is, unfortunately, correct about Thénardier. If he were to leave the country, he most likely would evade arrest for a long time, perhaps indefinitely. Javert hates criminals he knows are running free more than anything else-- which is most of the reason why he hated Valjean. Still hates Valjean.

“Please,” Valjean asks of him. “She’s everything to me.”

Javert takes a breath because some time in the last year or so Valjean has made his way under Javert’s skin without him noticing.

“Fine,” he grumbles. “I have no fucking idea what I’m going to tell my boss, but I’ll help you.”

Valjean sags in relief, the tension leaving his shoulders. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“I don’t want more of your charity, Valjean,” Javert says with a frown. “Just... don’t mention this. To anyone. You’re going to get me fired.”

For some reason, that makes Valjean smile. Javert scowls at him.

—

When he returns from work the next day, he finds that _someone_ has all but moved into his apartment. There’s bits of color everywhere, from a blue throw blanket on his couch and red place mats in his kitchen to a bright purple book on his coffee table. He hates it all immediately.

“Valjean!” he shouts, because it’s always fucking Valjean. “What the hell is this?”

“Your apartment?” Valjean answers from the kitchen. _Javert’s_ kitchen. There’s a mug of coffee in front of him and he’s still not using a damn coaster. “Thénardier knows where I live. He doesn’t know we’re friends.”

“I don’t have friends,” Javert says. “ _We_ are not friends. In fact, I hate you.”

Valjean doesn’t seem bothered by Javert’s denial. “It’s safer if I stay with you than risk Thénardier coming to my home.”

“I never invited you to stay.” He glares at Valjean. It’s unfortunate that he’s correct. “I don’t have _room_ for you to stay. My apartment is only so large, Valjean. Get a hotel or something.”

Again, Valjean ignores him. “I can sleep on your couch,” he says.

Javert is going to strangle him.

—

Javert hasn’t had a housemate in decades, not since he was in the police academy, and he hated it. He’s unsurprised to find that he hates it again now that Valjean has decided he’s living with him. Hate may even be too mild of a statement. Valjean’s a criminal for fuck’s sake, one who broke into his house too many times to count and has now imposed himself on Javert’s daily life. He can’t even kick him out because Valjean will just pick his locks to invite himself back in.

Valjean, he finds, is hardly ever silent. He hums, he whistles, he audibly reacts to the things he reads. Sometimes he paces and asks Javert inane questions about how he plans to catch Thénardier and keep his daughter safe. He spends a great deal of time watching Javert and it's nearly the only time he’s quiet. It’s incredibly distracting.

“Will you stop that?” Javert snaps.

The scratching of pencil on paper stops.

“Why?” Valjean asks, entirely oblivious of Javert’s desire to murder him.

“It’s irritating,” Javert informs him with a scowl over his laptop screen. “I’m trying to work and I can’t concentrate with your damn scribbling.”

Valjean hums, glancing critically at the sketchbook in his lap and then back up to Javert. His feet are up on the couch and Javert had given up attempting to lecture him to sit properly after the first two hours.

“You’re right,” he says after a moment. “I didn’t nearly capture your frown right, nor your eyebrows.”

“What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” He shouldn’t have asked that.

“Nothing,” Valjean says, still frowning at his drawing. “I like your eyebrows. They’re proving to be difficult to put on paper.”

“Why do you—“ No, he can’t possibly ask Valjean why he likes Javert’s _eyebrows_. That’s just stupid. This entire conversation is stupid. “Why are you drawing me?”

“I like drawing you,” Valjean says simply.

Javert doesn’t even know why he asked.

—

“What do you want for dinner?” Valjean asks that evening.

“You’re not making me dinner!” Javert snaps back at him from behind his laptop.

Valjean cooks in his kitchen anyway, using the stove and the oven and the other things that one uses to properly cook that Javert rarely touches. At least he’s no longer in Javert’s immediate vicinity and he can actually concentrate on the documents that may or may not give him a hint to Thénardier’s location. There must be something here to go off of, but research has never been Javert’s favorite part of investigation.

“I made us dinner,” Valjean says some undefined time later. Javert wants to stab him, or maybe just stab his own eyes out. He’s always hated reading. The computer makes it worse and gives him a headache. He doesn’t want to be further in debt to Valjean by the end of this madness, but food doesn’t sound terrible right now. He’ll take what he can get.

There’s candles on his kitchen table. He doesn’t even know where Valjean got them because he’s certain he doesn’t own any damn candles. They’re extinguished and in the sink before Valjean can defend their existence.

“What are you doing, bringing a fucking fire hazard into my apartment?” he growls. “Do you know how much they fine you for a false alarm? I can’t afford to pay that.”

“I thought they would look nice,” Valjean says simply. He doesn’t even look disappointed that Javert ruined his aesthetic or whatever. It’s irritating.

“I don’t care,” Javert says.

There’s two places set on his kitchen table on Valjean’s red placemats, as well as a bottle of wine and two coffee mugs. Javert doesn’t bother owning anything other than coffee mugs when he’s never there to drink anything other than coffee and water.  He looks down at the food on the plates, noting the careful presentation and the parallel lines of the silverware. It’s more than anyone has done for him for longer than he can remember, but he scowls and takes one of the plates in one hand and the silverware in the other and tells himself it means nothing.

“I told you not to buy me wine,” Javert growls.

“It’s an eight dollar bottle,” Valjean informs him.

That doesn’t matter. Javert still doesn’t like wine and he won’t take more of Valjean’s damn charity than he has to. He turns back to the sitting room.

“Where are you going?” Valjean asks.

“Where do you think I’m going?” Javert snaps back. “I have work to do.”

He’s annoyed that Valjean’s cooking isn’t terrible. It’s probably better than his if he bothered to actually cook. There’s some kind of pesto on grilled chicken with a salad on the side and he hates that it’s the best thing he’s tasted in a long while. He’s never patient enough to cook his own meals the proper way, instead mostly relying on ready made frozen things or take out. Or microwaving whatever Valjean leaves him.

“May I join you?” Valjean asks, once again opposite him across the coffee table. He brought the wine with him.

“Do whatever you want,” Javert says with a scowl on his face. “God knows you’re going to do it anyway.”

He sits and opens the wine. It’s screw top, which Javert can appreciate. At least Valjean didn’t attempt to give him something absurdly expensive again.

“Do you want some?” Valjean offers.

“I don’t like wine,” Javert says. Then a thought comes to him. “Did you steal the last bottles you gave me?”

Valjean blinks, as if such a question is unreasonable. He’s a thief. It’s a perfectly reasonable question. “No. I purchased them with my own funds.”

Javert doesn’t know how he should feel about that answer.

“You shouldn’t be spending that kind of money on stupid shit,” he finds himself saying.

“You are easily worth the price,” Valjean says with a small smile.

That doesn’t make any fucking sense and Javert isn’t about to ask what he means by that. He stares at Valjean in utter confusion. Valjean doesn’t seem to notice he’s said anything ridiculous.

“What do you drink then?” Valjean asks, oblivious to or unbothered by Javert’s blatant staring.

“Coffee,” Javert answers immediately. “I don’t consume alcohol often.”

Valjean hums to himself, as if making a mental note.

Javert watched him for several more moments from out of the corner of his eye, but doesn’t receive any answers. There’s work to do, and figuring out Valjean can come after finding his daughter.

—

His research into Thénardier hasn’t gone unnoticed. His superiors say nothing specific, but gently remind him of his current cases. It’s maddening. Thénardier will only wait so long for Valjean to deliver what he asked for and who know what will happen to Valjean’s kid after that. He may not like Valjean and he may not like kids, but Thénardier wouldn’t have any qualms about hurting Cosette if Valjean’s claims of abuse are true. They’re probably true. He hates that Valjean, a criminal, tells the truth.

He works on his official current cases for as long as he dares before going back to his apartment with a folder full of what files he could pull. At least now he can shove some of the work at Valjean.

Valjean, unfortunately, has also been busy by the looks of things.

“Why is there an easel in my apartment?” he asks, already knowing this argument will go nowhere. There are a couple of blank canvases leaned against the wall as well as something that can only be holding Valjean’s paints and brushes.

“I wanted to paint,” Valjean says.

“No shit.” Javert can already feel the migraine building in his skull. “I’m not in the position that I am at the Bureau for my lack of observation skills, Valjean. Why must you paint here?”

“So I could paint you.”

Javert grinds his teeth together and reminds himself that he shouldn’t assault Valjean if he wants to live. Valjean is a powerful man even if he’s chosen a life of nonviolence. Still, the urge to break Valjean’s face is nearly overwhelming.

“I won’t even ask why you want to paint me,” Javert says tensely. “I don’t want to see that thing here tomorrow. For once, I have work for you.” He throws the folder onto the coffee table. “The ventilation here is shit anyway,” he adds. “If I smell turpentine I’m going to take everything outside and burn it.”

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean says, again entirely unfazed by Javert’s threats. It’s unsettling.

Javert scowls at him. “Don’t ‘ _yes, Inspector,_ ’ me, Valjean. I have no qualms with burning your canvases. God knows I’ve been tempted before.”

“What stopped you?” Valjean asks.

“What do you think stopped me?” Javert snaps. “They are all evidence! I still can’t burn your damn forgeries!” A fact that taunts him every day.

Valjean looks surprised at this. “You kept all my forgeries?”

“ _I_ did not keep them; the Bureau keeps them. It’s a very important distinction.” He glares at Valjean. “Don’t get cocky about it.”

“No, I really had no idea that they were saved,” Valjean says with a note of confusion. “I thought they all went to the incinerator.”

Javert had always thought Valjean’s flippant attitude towards his own work was out of inflated pride. From Valjean’s reaction, it seems like it is actually the complete opposite. Does Valjean think so little of his skill? Javert isn’t one to ask about judging the worth of artwork, but even he knows that Valjean’s forgeries are some of the best. His portrait of Javert and the post-it sketches indicate he’s a fantastic artist in his own right. Why would he be expecting to hear that all his condemned paintings are incinerated unless he thinks his work isn’t worth anything?

He takes a moment to digest this new information about Valjean, then forces his face into a frown. “Believe me, If given the opportunity I would take the time to burn each of them individually and by hand with my own lighter, if only to drag out the satisfaction.”

His normal retort doesn’t sound convincing to his own ears. He turns away from the strange emotion on Valjean’s face and gestures towards the folder.

“I managed to pull some documents on Thénardier,” he says. “You can look through them so I don’t have to shovel through this bullshit on my own.”

Valjean is oddly silent as he sits and takes the folder in his hands.

—

Javert has never been a morning person and he will never be a morning person. There are no coherent thoughts in his mind until he has had at least one cup of strong coffee. Even then, he’s never properly awake until the second cup he makes at his office. Javert isn’t religious, not in the least, but he easily considers coffee worthy of worship.

Valjean, on the other hand, is disgustingly awake when Javert comes into the kitchen every morning and has never once complained about Javert’s couch being too small for him. Presumably, he talks to Javert while they’re both in the kitchen, but Javert is never awake enough to give any sort of response.

“Did you find any leads on where Cosette is?” Valjean asks him the third morning.

Javert doesn’t bother him with a response, too focused on how to make Valjean’s gifted coffee maker give him the caffeine he so desperately needs.

“I’m worried about her. How do you think Thénardier is treating her? Will she be alright after we get her back?”

Yes, there, the wonderful smell of the strong coffee he prefers. It tastes terrible, but Javert has never been picky about taste.

“Javert? James?”

He wraps his hands around his warm mug and starts to gain awareness of his surroundings as he nearly scalds his mouth with how hot his coffee is. It’s best to drink it hot for maximum effectiveness.

“James? Are you listening?”

Javert blinks in confusion. “Why are you calling me James?”

“Isn’t it your name?” Valjean asks.

Javert’s sluggish mind tries to remember. “Oh. Right.”

It takes him until he’s finished his cup to figure out why Valjean looks so confused.

“How do you even know what my first name is?” he asks, attempting to sound threatening, but it’s entirely too early to deal with Valjean right now.

“I Googled you,” Valjean answers. “Really, James, it’s not difficult.”

“Stop calling me James,” Javert tells him. “It may be my name legally, but it’s not mine.”

Valjean doesn’t look any less confused. Javert sighs. He hasn’t had enough coffee for this.

“James is the most popular male name in the United States,” Javert informs him. “It was assigned to me by the state of New York. I have always been only Javert.”

Valjean considers this, then says, “You don’t look like a James.”

Javert doesn’t know if that’s a compliment or not. He decides it’s too early to care and makes himself a second cup of coffee.

—

Valjean continues to be annoying and Javert continues to tolerate him. Javert finds a bag of coffee in his kitchen that can only be another gift from Valjean, but it’s actually good and doesn’t taste like fried rat intestines so he keeps drinking it without a word to Valjean. He makes Javert dinner every night and Javert yells at him about it but always accepts. When he was younger, Javert couldn’t afford to waste food and that habit is still ingrained in him. In addition, the food Valjean cooks is always good and there is hardly a reason to protest when Valjean is intent on doing these things for him. He protests anyway.

“What do you want for dinner tonight?” Valjean asks every night.

“I don’t care,” Javert will always answer. “I don’t need you to make me dinner.”

He learns to put up with Valjean’s constant sketching even if he still orders him to stop once it’s annoyed him enough. Why Valjean is so fascinated with drawing him, he has no idea and Valjean doesn’t offer an answer. Occasionally his sketches will make it to Javert’s refrigerator and occasionally Javert doesn’t throw them in the trash. At least the easel and the oil paints disappear. He doesn't know what he would do if Valjean actually decided to paint him.

Valjean seems to split his time between drawing Javert and worrying about his daughter. Sometimes he seems to draw Javert in order to _stop_ worrying about his daughter. He never offers to show Javert his sketches other than the ones he puts on his refrigerator and Javert never asks. To him, they’re just scribbles and he still hates art.

—

“What’s your favorite color?” Valjean asks him the fourth day.

“I don’t care,” Javert answers, not even bothering to look up from his work. Valjean should be helping with this, not asking him stupid questions.

“If you had to choose one,” Valjean prods.

“Black,” Javert tells him irritably, just to shut him up. “I don’t like colors.”

Keeping Valjean on task is like herding a damn cat. He doodles in the margins and never takes notes, leaving Javert to badger him with questions every ten minutes so something can be accomplished. Every so often he asks Javert unrelated questions and Javert has learned to answer immediately so Valjean will go back to work with his curiosity satisfied.

“What kind of books do you read?”

“Case files. I don’t read.”

“Do you have a favorite food?”

“No.”

“If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

“As far away from you as possible,” Javert growls. “Get back to work.”

Valjean is silent for several blessed minutes. It’s too much to hope that it will continue, but Javert savors it while it lasts.

“Do you have any allergies?” Valjean asks eventually, continuing his pointless questioning just as Javert expected him to.

“None that I know of.”

“What’s your favorite activity?”

“Arresting criminals.”

“Cats or dogs?”

“I don’t like animals. Why are you asking?”

“I want to get to know you.”

That isn’t an answer. Javert doesn't dignify that response with even a look.

“Do you watch television?”

Javert sighs irritably. “I watch the news.”

“When did you start smoking?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What’s your type?”

“A negative.” Javert pauses his typing. That’s an oddly specific question. “Why the hell do you want to know my blood type?”

“No, I mean the people you tend to date,” Valjean clarifies.

At this, Javert can’t help but laugh. It’s a rough bark that visibly startles Valjean until he beats it into silence. This is ridiculous. Valjean shouldn’t be in his apartment and he certainly shouldn’t be asking him questions like this.

“I don’t date,” he answers once he can speak again, lips still curled in an ugly smile at the absurdity of it all. “That’s none of your business anyway.”

Valjean is quiet for a moment and Javert thinks his questioning is over. Then he says, “I’ve never heard you laugh before.”

Javert snorts. “I don’t laugh. Stop asking me question.”

Still, Valjean looks at him with a strange expression for long moments afterwards. It’s irritating.

“Get back to work,” Javert growls. “Do you want your daughter back or not?”

“...yes, Inspector.”

—

Valjean isn’t entirely useless when it comes to research. It comes as a surprise when it appears that Valjean does nearly nothing productive all day, at least when Javert is in the same room as him. It shouldn’t be a surprise. Valjean did his own research for every painting he’s stolen in the past ten-odd years. Probably. Javert never asked him.

Between the both of them, they’ve compiled a long list of Thénardier’s crimes. It’s easily enough for life in prison. Somehow, probably through less than legal means that Javert is willing to turn a blind eye to, Valjean has learned where Thénardier is hiding out. Unfortunately, none of this is any help to them, and they only have two days until Thénardier’s deadline.

“Why can’t you do anything? We know where he is!” Valjean shouts at him. It’s nearly the only time Javert has heard him raise his voice.

“I don’t have a warrant,” Javert explains through gritted teeth. “I refuse to do this off the books. I can’t simply storm in there without a reason! What am I going to tell my superiors? What if they ask who gave me this information?”

Valjean flounders. “Make something up!”

Absurd. Does Valjean even know who he’s talking to? Javert may have changed since that night he considered suicide, but there are some things that can never change.

“I can’t simply ‘ _make something up’_!” Javert snaps. “This isn’t even my jurisdiction. Kidnappings aren’t my problem. Art theft and insurance fraud are my fucking problems!”

Valjean falls silent very suddenly. He is never silent.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop it,” Javert warns him. “You’re going to fuck up my whole career.”

“No, I have an idea,” Valjean says.

“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.” He glares at Valjean.

“It’ll work,” Valjean insists. “Give me a day. Two days. That falls within Thénardier’s deadline, yes?”

“It does,” Javert says slowly, crossing his arms and narrowing his eyes. “You’re cutting it awfully close.”

“I know. Trust me,” Valjean says. “It’s easy.”

“Nothing about this is easy!” Javert snarls at him.

“You’ll love it.”

Javert bears his teeth at him, ready to shoot down whatever idiotic plan Valjean’s made.

“All you have to do,” Valjean says, “is arrest me.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just realized my chapter lengths are ridiculously short from here on out, so number of chapters might change to six? Maybe? Or I could just write more content ahaha...
> 
> This is straight up my favorite chapter. Valjean made me cry because he's so soft. I love him. Have fun.

Javert is going to fucking murder Valjean.

In the last thirty-six hours, upwards of twenty works of art have gone missing. All have been replaced with Valjean’s stupid notes, most of which look to be ripped directly out of Valjean’s sketchbook and are, consequently, all of Javert. He’s hit several private galleries, occasionally using force like he never has since he was released from prison. Nothing even close to lethal, but there are still several guards that have been locked in maintenance rooms and a great many smashed surveillance cameras. A second story window was broken in one of the ridiculously expensive homes Valjean robbed and there are several drops of blood on the floor.

Javert finds that he’s more annoyed Valjean would risk damaging the artwork with whatever injury he sustained than anything else. Still, there’s a seed of worry in his chest that he absolutely did not give permission to take root. If Valjean requires a hospital visit after this, Javert will throttle him with his own two hands.

His phone has never received so many calls in one day. There are a great many wealthy people out for Valjean’s blood after he stole several works from each of them, and it’s Javert’s job to deal with them. He’s going to go insane. After the first few hours, he just turns his phone off and prays that Valjean doesn't attempt to contact him that way. He never has in the past, but Javert would like to have at least one way of contacting him. Hopefully. Even though he can guess exactly what Valjean has planned, he’s still worn ragged after chasing Valjean’s trail back and forth across the city for more hours than he cares to count. He doesn’t even want to know how Valjean can keep up this pace. It’s absurd. It’s beyond absurd. Valjean’s a damn monster if he can do this at his age.

Javert does not have Valjean’s endurance. It’s not the first time he falls asleep at his desk and it won’t be the last. He only manages an hour or two before someone is shaking his shoulder.

“This came for you,” one of the nameless interns tell him.

It’s a postcard; one with a Monet print on the front showing the river and a bridge. Just for that, Javert resolves to arrest Valjean with a little more force than necessary, especially when he remembers that it's the first painting Valjean ever stole. On the back, Valjean has drawn a street corner with some kind of thin marker in great detail. It’s enough of a hint that Javert manages to convince a team that he knows the exact crossroads Valjean drew. It’s not a lie, as it’s most certainly the warehouse that he and Valjean know Thénardier is hiding out in, but he’s never actually been there in person. He’s unexpectedly nervous when he’s calling out orders to move out. It’s ridiculous to be nervous now. He’s waited over a decade to re-arrest Valjean. Thénardier will be caught and Valjean will be arrested and Valjean’s daughter will be rescued.

He resolutely doesn’t think about the three figures Valjean had drawn walking on the sidewalk in the scene; two men, one with dark hair and one with light, with a little girl in between them.

—

Thénardier is exactly the kind of person that Javert wanted to arrest when he was seven years old.

He’s done a bit of everything, from selling hard drugs to stealing cars to conning people out of their money on the internet. There’s very little he hasn’t dabbled in. Javert relishes hating him, for with Thénardier there is no history between them and no reason for Javert to second guess his intentions.

When Javert enters the warehouse, Thénardier has Valjean at gunpoint. Valjean is looking worse for wear, with a great assortment of bruises and a bandage wrapped around his arm that’s dark with blood. Thénardier, however, looks murderous. Valjean has clearly punched him at some point, which Javert doesn't blame him for, and there's blood smeared across the corner of his mouth which complements the grime and stubble on his face

Javert doesn’t even think. His gun is raised and then there’s a bullet in Thénardier’s thigh. When that fails to take him down, Javert tackles him to the ground and presses a knee against his back. His handcuffs are around Thénardier’s wrists in a moment while Thénardier grunts in pain. 

“Oh, thank God you’re here,” Valjean says, then he too seems to simply collapse to the ground in an exhausted heap. Javert is the only agent in the building at the moment, which is a small mercy. Who knows what anyone else would have thought of such a statement from Valjean.

“What the hell did you do to yourself?” Javert demands.

That wasn’t what Javert meant to ask. He meant to ask for proof that he didn’t just shoot and cuff on a man for no reason. He meant to ask if Valjean ever found where his daughter was kept.

“I’m fine,” Valjean says, and Javert wants to strangle him again. He is clearly not fine. He is the opposite of fine. “There’s drugs in those duffle bags as well as sequential bills. I don’t know which is which. There may be other things. The paintings are in a safe-house, except one which I brought with me so you would have probable cause."

Thénardier struggles under Javert’s knee, clearly wanting to say something. Javert lets his weight fall on the center of Thénardier’s back and he stops squirming, his mouth no doubt full of dirt and dust and whatever the hell is on this floor. Javert doesn't want to think about what's on the floor of this place.

“I’m sure I’ll find something to charge you with,” he growls at Thénardier. He’ll leave reading his Miranda rights to someone else.

Then he looks to Valjean. Valjean is already holding out his wrists, even as he can’t bring himself to stand.

“This was the deal,” Valjean says. He sounds exhausted, but there’s a trace of a smile on his face. “You’ve waited a long time for this, Inspector.”

When Javert had imagined re-arresting Valjean, he did not think it would feel like this. He wants to hesitate, to let Valjean go free once more, but Valjean isn’t in any condition to run. Valjean doesn’t look like he _wants_ to run.

Javert leaves Thénardier where he is and the man is thankfully silent, although his dark eyes watch his every movement. It's easily ignored, especially when Valjean has put himself through hell just so Javert could arrest him to save his daughter. There's dark circles under Valjean's eyes that are even deeper than the ones Javert has, and his hair is in unwashed tangles around his face. He even has a bit of a beard which looks terrible on him. Javert can't say he looks much better after the last couple of days they've had.

After a slight hesitation, Javert snaps Valjean’s wrists together behind his back. There’s charcoal residue on Valjean’s hands and his nails are chipped and short. He just stops himself from feeling the texture of Valjean’s calloused palms, if only because the warehouse is suddenly flooded with agents. Damn. A part of him had hoped that he could arrest Valjean without an audience, but clearly that is not to be. Javert can feel the eyes of his department on him, watching him finally arrest the man who had evaded him for over a decade.  

“Jean Valjean,” Javert says. His lungs feel heavy, as if he did throw himself into the Hudson and now he’s drowning. “You are under arrest for multiple counts of theft as well as several other crimes.” The words roll off his tongue automatically and fall from his mouth like dead things. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of law.”

“I understand my rights, Inspector,” Valjean says. “I have one request, should you choose to grant it to me.”

Javert already knows what he’s going to ask, but there are eyes on them now. It is very nearly like they are pretending to be caricatures of themselves; Javert the cop and Valjean the robber. He wonders when they stopped being opposites of each other.

“What is it?” Javert says, managing to inflect some annoyance into his tone.

“Find my daughter,” Valjean says. It’s more of a plea when his voice breaks in the middle of it.

Javert doesn’t dignify his request with an answer. Valjean knows he’ll do it. Their audience doesn't need to hear anything else from them. He leads Valjean outside, allowing Valjean to lean against him to limp more or less under his own power. Valjean walks with a limp and Javert can't help but wonder what injuries he gave himself. There’s a great deal of muscle in Valjean’s arms, but now he lets them hang tired and useless. The handcuffs must be chafing his wrists like that, but Javert says nothing. 

Valjean pauses before he climbs into the back of a police cruiser, catching his breath and taking the time to look at Javert.

“It’s been a privilege to know you at last, Detective Inspector Javert.”

He smiles. It wavers, like he’s fighting himself to give Javert one last irritating smile. His eyes are watery and Javert can’t stop staring at him, committing his face to memory.

“As it has you,” Javert finds himself answering.

They are silent for a moment, and then Valjean gives a quiet laugh.

“Look at us,” he says. “What a pair we are.”

He’s still smiling, even as his eyes are bright with tears.

“Indeed,” Javert says. The side of his mouth lifts in the closest thing to a smile he’ll allow. It’s only for a moment, but Valjean sees it which is all that matters.

Valjean spends one more moment looking at him, then allows Javert to put him in the backseat of a police cruiser. There’s nothing more to say and Javert doesn’t trust himself to speak. He shuts the door and can’t look at Valjean through the window. The cruiser drives off and he watches it until it turns the corner. Even then, he continues to stare blankly at the place where it disappeared.

He has no idea why it feels like he just lost something important.

—

It’s two days before Thénardier reveals the location of Valjean’s daughter. Even then, it’s only due to a boy who can’t possibly be out of high school who happily leads them to where she’s being kept. He identifies himself as one Marius Pontmercy and Javert instantly finds him irritating. All he talks of is Cosette, even after they finished getting information out of him. Javert insists on being a part of the team that retrieves her, if only to uphold his promise to Valjean. Fortunately, Cosette was in the company of Thénardier’s own daughter Éponine, who was more than happy to rat out her own father, and was allowed food and drink most days. The only wounds she has are minor bruising and chafed wrists. She was still kept in a metal shipping container in the dark most of the time, but things could have been much worse. Valjean had every right to be as panicked as he was. 

“She needs a temporary place to stay while we find her a new guardian,” someone says.

“I’ll take her,” Javert volunteers immediately.

“Are you sure?” It’s asked dubiously, which isn’t unexpected. Javert has a well known dislike for children.

“I have a couch and there is little she could do to disrupt my life.” Not after Valjean came into his apartment like a whirlwind.

After some negotiation, his wish is granted. He’s nearly fulfilled his half of the deal with Valjean, yet he still feels empty.

—

Cosette is a pretty girl, with long brown hair and a petite frame. She looks almost delicate, but if she’s anything like her father then she’s anything but. No matter; Javert had agreed to take her and find her an appropriate guardian and he will not fail Valjean in this. It is only fair.

“I recognize you,” she says with surprise.

“I’m not surprised,” Javert answers in a monotone. In the last five days, he’s slept nearly twenty hours total and at this point he's running on vapors. “Valjean refuses to stop drawing me. It’s annoying.”

He didn’t mean to say as much as he did, but he’s exhausted and is only functioning due to the sheer amount of coffee he’s consumed.

“They told me Jean Valjean is my father, but my father’s name is Ultime Fauchelevant,” she says, confused.

Javert snorts at the name. It doesn’t fit Valjean at all. “He is the same irritating man,” he says. “I will answer your questions later, perhaps tomorrow.” He has work off tomorrow and the day after. He plans to catch up on his sleep and tell Cosette everything she needs to know.

“Am I staying with you?” she asks.

“Obviously,” Javert says. Then he yawns, for once unable to contain it. “Come on. I don’t live that far away.”

Cosette follows hesitantly, likely not trusting him. Javert doesn’t mind. There aren’t that many people that trust him. He thinks Valjean might have trusted him.

“Here we are,” Javert announces, unlocking his door. “Valjean left all his shit here before he pulled that idiotic stunt.”

There, on his coffee table, is a new pile of books he certainly doesn’t own and a small duffle bag by his couch.

“Damn it, Valjean,” he mutters to himself. “Stop breaking into my apartment.”

“You sound as if you know him,” Cosette says. She's clearly curious, but Javert isn't in any state to give her answers. 

“He stayed here, on my couch even when I told him a hotel would be more comfortable, the entire week you were missing.” He’s too tired for this. “Bathroom is there, kitchen is there, sitting room is here, my room is there.” He points with tired motions. “You will have the couch. Take a shower if you want. If you’re hungry, take what you like from the kitchen. I don’t cook often.”

“Why didn’t you arrest him if was here?” she asks.

He doesn’t know the answer to that.

“It’s complicated,” he says. “I will answer anything you want tomorrow.” He yawns again. “I need to sleep. Don’t open the door for anyone; that’s obvious. Use common sense. Those books on the coffee table are most likely intended for you as well as the duffel bag. I am going to pass out on my feet if I stand here much longer. Are there any questions?”

“No,” Cosette says promptly.

“You’re a good kid,” Javert says absently. “I’m not good with kids. Damn Valjean for making me promise this.”

“Goodnight,” Cosette says as he opens his bedroom door.

Javert doesn’t give her a response. The moment his head touches the pillow, he’s out like a light.

—

He sleeps most of the next day away, waking up sometime in the early afternoon. He isn’t ready to face they girl in his apartment yet. Or the world, for that matter. For long minutes, he lays there looking at the ceiling and wondering what his life has become. Again and again, his thoughts circle back to Valjean and his unlimited patience and kindness. He doesn’t know how he feels about Valjean now. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to feel about Valjean. Once, he expected to feel victorious when he finally arrested Valjean. He doesn’t feel victorious. Instead he feels numb.

Hunger finally stirs him from his bed and he wonders if Valjean left him anything in his refrigerator. Probably not. He was very busy those two days before his arrest. Javert doesn’t know why he’s disappointed by the lack of homemade food in his apartment.

He sits up. There’s something different about his bedroom. He attempts to blink himself to awareness. Last night he was too exhausted to think properly and only had eyes for his bed. Now, it seems like his tiny bedroom is somehow smaller.

They are paintings in his room, he finally realizes. They lean again the walls, some covered with some protective cloth slip and others naked, and there must be at least twenty of them. A safe-house, Valjean had said. Well, Javert can admit his apartment is pretty damn safe.  

Javert is going to kill him for this.

He gets out of bed and changes into new clothes, moving a painting out of the way to even get to his dresser. It's a Magritte, something absurdist about wine bottles turning into carrots which doesn't make any sense at all. On the other side of his room he spies a Renoir painting of a bouquet. Every single one of these paintings costs more money than Javert will ever see in his life. This is ridiculous. He hates Valjean for doing this to him. There’s hardly anywhere to walk save for a path from the door to his bed because there are so many damn paintings. He’s too tired for this. He needs coffee for this.

Cosette is curled up on his couch with a book in her hands. It reminds Javert so much of Valjean it’s nearly painful. Even her feet are up on the couch just as Valjean liked to do. Annoyingly, she also seems to have an aversion to coasters.

“What is it with you and Valjean and the desire to mark up my tables?” Javert says. His voice is gravely from sleep and he can’t bring himself to care. “Use a coaster. They’re there for a reason.”

“Good afternoon,” she says. “I have questions.”

At least Valjean’s daughter can follow instructions and puts one of Javert’s plain black coasters under her cup. Once Valjean had brought him coasters with famous oil paintings on them, but Javert threw them out instantly.

“I need coffee,” Javert says. And food. Preferably Valjean’s food. He hasn’t eaten in nearly a day.

Cosette says nothing more and seems content for him to start to resemble a human being before bombarding him with the multitude of questions she likely has. She’s a blessing after Valjean’s incessant badgering about Javert’s life and preferences.

There’s one container of Valjean’s leftovers in his refrigerator. He doesn't even remember what it is but he microwaves it anyway while his coffee is brewing. There’s a single new post-it on his refrigerator that he hadn’t noticed last night.

 _'Thank you_ ,’ is all it says. There are no drawings, no irritating questions, no gifts. It isn’t addressed and it isn’t signed.

He can’t bring himself to throw it away like he has so many of Valjean’s other messages. Instead, he places a black magnet on it so it won’t fall off and become lost. He stares at it, feeling like he should understand the emotions behind those two simple words. It's very odd.

He doesn’t know how he feels about Valjean anymore.

—

It takes nearly two hours to tell Cosette everything he knows of Valjean. She has a great many questions; so many that Javert can’t answer some of them. He does his best and tries to be patient with her, but sometimes she acts so must like Valjean that he forgets himself.

Yes, Valjean has been stealing paintings since before she was born; no, he doesn’t know why he stole paintings instead of finding legal means to get his marks arrested. Yes, Valjean practically moved into his apartment; no, he doesn’t know why he felt the need. Yes, Valjean has more than one alias; no, he doesn’t know what any of the others are. No, Javert doesn’t know how long it will take before another legal guardian is assigned to her; yes, Javert will fulfill his end of the deal with Valjean and make certain her new guardians are decent people.

“Will I ever see Papa again?” she asks. It’s clear she cares about her father just as much as Valjean cares about her. Her hands clench in the orange pillow Valjean left on his couch.

“Other than behind bulletproof glass?” Javert asks flatly. “Likely not.”

He finds himself wishing that were not the case.

—

It is one week before suitable guardians are found for Cosette. Javert has double checked their background and declared them up to his standards and gives Cosette his phone number just in case. She isn’t nearly as annoying as her father and Javert actually didn’t mind sharing his space with her. Then he prepares himself to face all the people Valjean stole from in this last mad spree. It takes several weeks and gives him an unending migraine. By the time he’s finished nearly a month later, he’s ready to never leave his apartment again.

His apartment, which still has pieces of Valjean’s colors brightening the white walls and grey furniture. His apartment, which is too silent without Valjean’s scribbling or humming or pacing. His apartment, which now feels empty with himself as it’s only occupant.

For the first time in his life, Javert is lonely.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have enough content to justify three more chapters, so I guess this is the second to last one now? Here is where another stolen plot device comes into play, and it's immediately obvious what it is ahaha.
> 
> Also, if you're familiar with Leverage, there's a Parker cameo because I love Leverage.
> 
> [TheLifeOfEmm](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLifeOfEmm/pseuds/TheLifeOfEmm) painted the painting of Javert and I love it a lot? You can see it [here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ozHyl-oQoH3KwjWcHrk7gQ5sfd4xMcm0/view?usp=sharing%20). It's wonderful. <3

It’s two months before he visits Valjean in prison.

“I didn’t expect to have visitors,” Valjean says from behind the glass. He’s in a clunky orange jumpsuit, one that doesn’t suit him at all. Javert hates it.

“I didn’t expect to visit,” Javert replies into the phone. “I don’t visit prisoners.”

Valjean smiles at that, calling out Javert’s hypocrisy with one soft expression.

“How is Cosette?” Valjean asks, and that Javert can answer.

He tells him of her questions, of how blessedly quiet she is, of the guardians who now hold custody of her,

“She’s exactly like you,” Javert says, “only less irritating.”

“Do you like her?” Valjean asks.

Javert doesn’t know why that matters,

“She’s not as annoying as I expected her to be,” he answers. “I don’t do kids, but at least she was quiet and stayed out of my way.”

Valjean smiles again, looking down at where his hand is fiddling with the cord of the phone.

“I hoped you would like her,” Valjean says. “I’m glad you do.”

“I never said that,” Javert denies with a scowl. “Stop putting words in my mouth.”

“Yes, Inspector.”

“Javert,” Javert corrects him. “To you, I am only Javert.”

Valjean looks at him for a long moment with an odd pained smile on his face. His eyes are sad.

“Of course, Javert.”

—

He finds his work is boring without Valjean to keep him occupied. No other thieves are as creative as him and require as much planning to catch them. There is nothing to do besides paperwork and muddling his way through insurance fraud and stupid scams. On occasion, if he feels the mark is corrupt enough and the thief desperate enough, he’ll let the thief go. He thinks Valjean would approve.

It’s ridiculous how much time he spends thinking about Valjean.

—

Valjean looks weary the next time Javert visits him. His hair is limp and the creases around his eyes have deepened and stubble covers his face.

“What happened to you?” Javert asks.

“Prison happened,” Valjean says. He tries to force a smile, but even Javert can see it’s only a show. “I didn’t expect you to visit again.”

“You left all your shit in my apartment,” Javert grumbles. “I don’t even know where you live. Lived.”

“Several places, in several cities,” Valjean says. He doesn’t elaborate and Javert doesn’t press him.

Javert scowls at him. “How many aliases do you have?”

“A few,” Valjean answers. “Enough to keep Cosette safe.”

“And yourself?”

“Cosette is the only one who matters.”

Javert wants to strangle him, or punch him, or take him by the front of his stupid orange prison jumpsuit and kiss him. The bulletproof glass between them stops him from doing any of these things.

“You’re an idiot.”

Valjean nearly smiles. It’s a small pained thing, but it’s there nonetheless.

“I hate you,” Javert says.

“I know,” Valjean answers.

—

He doesn’t know when he stopped hating Valjean.

—

Time drags by slowly. Valjean has been in prison for nearly six months and Javert can’t bring himself to throw out any of Valjean’s stupid colored things that ruin the black and white space Javert chooses to live in. Cosette contacts him on occasion, mostly asking about her father. Javert answers her when he can and doesn’t visit Valjean again. Maybe he’ll bring Cosette if she wants to see him. So far, she hasn’t asked him about it.

He spends a great deal of time staring at the painting Valjean made him. Valjean still doesn’t make any sense, but Javert has accepted he never will. The painting is still a mystery, the gifts and the post-it notes are still a mystery, his many sketched portraits of Javert are a mystery. He doesn’t know why he wanted to kiss Valjean. He doesn’t know if Valjean would even let him. Maybe he would. Probably not.

He can’t stop thinking about Valjean and it’s annoying him. There are other thieves, other cases that should grab his attention, but nothing does. All he can think of is the great annoyance of his life that is Jean Valjean and it continues to consume him. Even when he isn’t present, Valjean manages to irritate the shit out of him. He hates that he can’t even properly hate Valjean anymore.

—

It’s unfortunate that his distraction and consequently his low performance has been noticed by his superiors.

“You’ve been more subdued than usual since you cuffed Valjean,” Chabouillet comments. It’s annoying that Chabouillet has been his boss for so long that he can read Javert’s moods. “Care to tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Nothing is bothering me,” Javert says.

Chabouillet gives him a look. Clearly, he doesn’t believe him.

“You know, the FBI has work-release programs,” he says. “It couldn’t hurt to check them out.”

“Do you think I want Valjean bothering me again after working so hard to put him away?” Javert asks sarcastically.

“It was just a thought,” Chabouillet says. “I’ll leave you alone to think about it.”

“Please do,” Javert growls.

—

Javert spends time convincing himself that Valjean isn’t suitable for work-release. Valjean is a thief. Valjean is annoying. Valjean has an appreciation for art. Valjean has in depth knowledge about art history. Valjean knows how to forge a painting and can spot if something is original or not.

He hates how Valjean has him filling out the appropriate forms as soon as he can get his hands on them.

—

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” Valjean says.

For the third time, they sit opposite from each other with glass in between them. Valjean looks even more worn than before and is sporting a beard. It looks terrible on him.

“You’re a menace,” Javert tells him with a scowl. “I hate you.”

“I haven’t done anything.”

Javert ignores him. “You’re going to receive some paperwork. Sign it and don’t complain about the stipulations.”

“What are you talking about?” Valjean asks. “Paperwork for what?”

“Don’t you dare thank me for this,” Javert says.

“I don’t know what I shouldn’t be thanking you for.” Valjean’s eyebrows furrow together in confusion.

Javert is reminded of the odd fact that apparently Valjean likes his eyebrows. What a strange thing to remember.

“You’re going to be absolutely insufferable. Don’t make me regret this.” He sighs an annoyed huff and wishes he didn’t miss insulting Valjean. “Cosette is well, if you wanted to know.”

That finally gets Valjean’s attention and he looks like he has a bit more life to him, sitting straighter in his chair. “Tell me. Please.”

And Javert does.

—

It’s a month of solid paperwork to get Valjean’s work-release processed, but it’s nearly worth it to see Valjean without glass in between them.

“Don’t fucking thank me,” Javert says, arms crossed over his chest.

“Thank you,” Valjean says anyway. He’s insufferable.

Javert flips him off. “Just get in the car,” he growls.

—

The first thing he does is strap a GPS tracker to Valjean’s left ankle.

The second thing he does is take him to dinner.

“Why are you doing this?” Valjean asks, not even picking up his menu. Javert is very thankful that he shaved his beard because it looked wrong on him. He probably would have shaved it off himself.

“Because I’m hungry and prison food is terrible,” Javert answers. It’s not a nice restaurant. It’s just a burger joint. Even then, it’s not even a nice burger joint. “Do you want to know the rules you have to follow or do you want to go back behind bars?”

Valjean is suddenly very cooperative while Javert explains. He is restricted to a three-mile radius around wherever he decides to live, which must obviously be within three miles of the Bureau. He can’t steal anything or otherwise break his parole and Javert threatens to shoot him if he even thinks about it. He actually has a job to do and must show up to work every day Javert does, which is most every day.

“When can I see Cosette?” he asks. “Can I regain custody of her?”

“Yes, you can see Cosette in the near future,” Javert answers irritably. “You most likely will not be able to regain custody of her.”

It’s clearly not what Valjean was hoping to hear. They eat in silence for several minutes, which is the longest Valjean has ever been quiet in his presence. It’s blissful. At least until he finishes his burger.

Then Valjean tries to steal his fries. Javert bats his hand away.

“Stop that,” he growls.

“You forget that I’m a thief,” Valjean reminds him with a badly hidden smile.

“I hate you,” Javert says.

He lets Valjean have one of his fries. But only one.

—

He drops Valjean off at the address Valjean had written in his paperwork, then drives himself to his apartment and collapses into bed. Hopefully, this isn’t a terrible decision.

The next morning, Javert realizes this is a terrible decision.

“Valjean, what the hell did you do to my desk?” Javert snarls at him.

“I decorated it,” Valjean answers.

Javert’s formerly pristine desk had been overtaken by no less than three bouquets, maybe more, all with stupid thank you cards attached. He hates it. It’s far too early to start dealing with Valjean’s bullshit.

“What did I tell you about buying me flowers?”

“To... not do that?”

“Exactly!”

There isn’t even any satisfaction in throwing them away when Valjean only stands there passively, not looking upset in the least. In addition, they have an audience, even if most of them are pretending they’re not listening. Javert hates how squabbling with Valjean is something he chooses to submit himself to.  

“Don’t mess with my desk,” Javert tells him. “And if you want to get me something, get me a cup of coffee.”

“Yes, Inspector,” Valjean says, turning away.

“I told you to just use my name,” Javert reminds him irritably. “I don’t want to hear any more damn ‘ _yes, Inspector_ ’s from you. It’s annoying.”

Valjean beams. “Yes, Javert.”

Javert wants to murder him.

—

Javert accompanies him to see Cosette, as her guardians live outside of the three-mile range that Valjean’s GPS tracker is allowed. There are tears on Valjean’s face as he holds his daughter’s petite form in his strong arms. They are completely absorbed in one another, and Javert thinks that this must be what people are referring to when they speak of family. He feels awkward standing off to the side as father and daughter embrace and doesn’t know if he should look away or not.

After long minutes, Valjean releases Cosette and wipes the tears from his eyes. He doesn’t seem to be embarrassed and Javert can’t find it in himself to comment about it.

“Javert, this is my daughter Cosette,” he says.

“We’ve met,” Javert replies blandly.

Valjean looks away even as a smile spreads across his face. “I wanted to do the formalities.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Javert grumbles. Cosette laughs and he rolls his eyes at her.

“Cosette, this is my friend Javert,” Valjean continues.

“Valjean, we are not friends,” Javert responds automatically.

“I know,” Valjean says. His smile doesn’t falter.

—

It’s unfortunate that Valjean is charming in his own awkward way to everyone at the Bureau. He’s absurdly nice and it’s drawing attention Javert would rather not have. Even those who were originally wary of having a criminal in the office ended up liking him by the end of the second week. The only upside to this is that Valjean can sweet talk his way to the beginning of the coffee line and bring Javert steaming hot coffee every morning, so perhaps it’s not entirely terrible.

Valjean’s desk is facing his. Javert formerly had no problems with this, until Valjean’s mess starts to creep onto his desk no matter how much Javert snarls at him to keep to his own side. He doesn’t even know why Valjean has a desk. In addition, Javert can see him every time he looks around his computer to observe him or to sketch him and it’s distracting. He finds colorful paper cranes perched on the top his monitor that he burns whenever he steps out for a smoke and more stupid post-its on the sides of his computer.

‘ _Do you want to go out for dinner?_ ’ one of them says. It’s Valjean’s third week working with the Bureau and Javert hasn’t killed him yet.

“I thought we were over this,” Javert growls, crumpling it and dropping it on Valjean’s keyboard.

Valjean writes another one. ‘ _I can cook for you if you want._ ’

That’s almost tempting. Valjean’s a good cook.

“Only if you clean all your shit out of my apartment,” Javert answers.

Valjean drops his pen in surprise. “I thought you would have tossed it all by now.”

He’s not wrong. It’s been about eight months since he re-arrested Valjean, which is entirely too much time to live with Valjean’s things still in his apartment.

“They’re your property,” Javert says.

Valjean falls silent at that, the buzz of the office filling the silence once more.

Javert writes his own post-it note when Valjean has been worryingly quiet for far too long. ‘ _I’ll eat whatever you want to cook_.’

Valjean blinks at Javert’s note, then replies, ‘ _Dinner at your place then?_ ’

‘ _Obviously_.’

Valjean smiles broadly at him. Javert scowls. It’s absurd that Valjean has them passing notes like children.

—

He isn’t really surprised to find Valjean in his apartment before him.

“How do you even get in here?” Javert asks irritably.

“I used the window the first few times,” Valjean tells him. He’s already working in the kitchen. “You leave it unlocked when you smoke. After you stopped changing your locks, I copied your key.”

Javert doesn’t know what he expected. He doesn’t even ask how Valjean entered his apartment on the fifth floor via the window. Valjean shouldn’t even have a key anymore, unless he made multiples and left them at his house. He probably made multiples.

He hasn’t moved Valjean’s things much. The blue throw blanket has migrated to his normal chair and the bright red placemats were washed and moved aside and the candlesticks he bought lay with them. Valjean’s stupid orange pillow still lives on his couch and his mustard coat still hangs on his coat rack. The post-its hanging from his refrigerator with magnets have faded, but he hasn’t once moved them.

It occurs to him that he doesn’t want Valjean to take his things back and leave him with a cold and empty apartment.

“Is pasta okay with you?” Valjean asks.

“I’ve eaten worse things,” Javert says.

For once, work had not followed Javert back to his apartment. He sits in the kitchen and watches Valjean work for lack of things to do and attempts to understand why Valjean looks at him so often. Valjean is entirely at home in Javert’s kitchen, which should annoy him but it doesn’t. His hands are precise and he keeps his elbows close to him as if to make himself look smaller. Impossible, for Valjean could never look small. His shoulders are too wide for that and his chest too broad.

Valjean catches him watching and looks away soon after.

“What?” Javert asks gruffly.

“Ah, it’s nothing,” Valjean says. His shoulders curl inwards like a turtle hiding in its shell.

It’s obviously not nothing, but Javert is willing to leave it alone. Valjean’s back is only so interesting for another minute or so and soon Javert is retrieving his phone to scroll through the news and check his email. It doesn’t quite hold his attention like watching Valjean did.

“Are we eating in the kitchen or at the coffee table?” Valjean asks some time later.

“Kitchen,” Javert says, putting his phone down. “Now that I’m not saving your ass, I have far less work to do.”

It’s nearly pleasant to have dinner with Valjean and talk about work. Valjean doesn’t ask him any ridiculous questions and for once contributes to the conversation in a meaningful way. He still tries to steal from Javert’s plate and Javert fends him off with his fork, scowling the entire time.

“Are you going to the rally?” Valjean asks.

“What rally?”

“The one that’s pushing for more arts in the education system.”

“God, no,” Javert answers. “I don’t like crowds and I don’t even want to imagine what crowd control is like. At least I’m not in the NYPD and have to deal with that shit.”

“If I could, I would go,” Valjean says. “It’s organized by a group of college kids. I think it’s a good idea.”

“There are better ways to change legislation than a damn rally.” Javert sneers at the idea of it. “It’s like they haven’t even heard of calling their senators.”

“Maybe you’re right.” Valjean looks into his nearly-empty cup. They’ve both cleared their plates and there’s nothing for Valjean to steal. “I taught an art class for impoverished youth at my gallery. I wonder if it’s still running.”

“You had a gallery?”

“Yes. I thought you knew this,” Valjean says. “I sold my paintings under the name Jean Madeleine.”

That name rings a bell in Javert’s mind, but he can’t remember where he had heard it. “So you could afford ridiculous things like buying me wine and expensive watches.”

“I live humbly. I don’t need the money. Besides,” he smiles at the table, “I didn’t know how else to get your attention.”

“You already had my attention,” Javert says. “I didn’t chase you for a decade for nothing, Valjean.”

“I know.”

Javert doesn’t know what he means and he doesn’t ask. Valjean offers no explanation.

He forgets to take his things out of Javert’s apartment and Javert doesn’t know if he’s thankful or not.

—

Valjean more than earns his keep. So far, he’s identified several forgeries and assisted Javert in arresting more than a few thieves in two months. All he asks for in return is to see his daughter once a week and to sometimes give Javert ridiculous things or cook him dinner. He’s never once complained about being restricted to a three-mile radius and never has been tracked anywhere near the edge of his limits.

It’s making Javert suspicious. He says nothing and only keeps an eye on Valjean just in case he tries to pull something. Valjean, however, seems to me more than content with following Javert around like a lost puppy and irritating him in the process. Javert yells at him and Valjean always takes it in stride and then Javert yells at him about that too.

Still, Valjean smiles at him nearly every day and brings him coffee and occasionally helps Javert in his investigations. It’s not terrible to have Valjean around sometimes.

—

“It’s a forgery,” Valjean says passively. He’s examined this painting for an hour and Javert has started to lose his patience.

“How is it a forgery?” Javert asks irritably. “It’s passed all our tests.”

“It’s a very good forgery,” Valjean admits. “The canvass and the paint is aged, the wood for the frame is probably from an antique cabinet or something similar. However, this artist thinks too highly of themselves. They signed it.”

“Excuse me?”

“They signed it,” Valjean repeats. “See here?” He points to one of the swirls in the paint. “They signed it, and then painted yellow over it. You can still see the signature.”

He is unfortunately correct and it irritates Javert.

“How did you know to look for a signature?” he asks.

“All good artists sign their work, forgery or not,” Valjean says.

“Where are your signatures then?”

Valjean blinks at him. “I never signed my forgeries. Why would I?”

“Because your forgeries are excellent,” Javert states. “Because you’re a damn good artist.”

“I’m really not,” Valjean says.

Javert doesn’t know if he wants to strangle him or kiss him. He does neither and bears his teeth at him.  

“I wouldn’t have dragged you out of prison if you weren’t highly skilled,” he says in nearly a growl. “It wouldn’t have taken me a fucking decade to catch you if your work was anything less than it is.”

Valjean’s cheeks flush pink at his backhanded praise. Javert wants to kiss him again.

“You’re an idiot,” Javert says instead of kissing him.

Valjean smiles at the insult and Javert scowls.

—

Valjean still breaks into his apartment and Javert can’t bring himself to care anymore. Nearly always Valjean brings some sort of gift and nearly always Javert tells him to stop bringing him shit. The only things Javert accepts are coffee and food and Valjean’s company. He doesn’t know when Valjean’s presence stopped being annoying and started being something else entirely.

—

Valjean, he finds, is absolutely terrible at apprehending criminals.

“She went that way,” Valjean says uselessly, pointing down the hallway.

“I put you here for a reason, Valjean,” Javert snaps at him, grabbing his wrist to pull him down the hallway after the thief. “Why didn’t you hold her?”

“She was scared,” Valjean says, even as he follows Javert running through the darkened museum. “I think this is her first heist.”

“Then she’ll learn not to do this again,” Javert growls.

They lose her, out a goddamn window, and it’s entirely Valjean’s fault. He snarls at him and Valjean cowers under his sharp words.

“Do you even know why I do this?” Javert yells at him as they stand before an open window on the fourth floor. There’s a grappling hook on the sill and a rope trailing down to the ground and no thief in sight.

“I’ve never thought about it,” Valjean says. He’s not even out of breath. It’s entirely unfair.

“I do this because I want to keep people safe!” Javert shouts.  “All I have ever wanted to do is to protect those who cannot protect themselves. A thief will steal and that is unfair to the mark. The thief may trade or resell the stolen items, but at what benefit to them? It is selfishness. Society cannot function in a selfish world. Do you not see the consequences of the actions of a single person?”

Valjean stays silent, standing at rapt attention. Javert runs a hand through his hair and scowls.

“The law exists to keep people safe,” Javert continues in a quieter but no less frustrated tone. “You taught me that sometimes the law is wrong; however you are the exception and not the rule. There is injustice in the world, Valjean, and there will always be injustice. I would be an idiot to think I can fix all of it, but I do what I can.”

He runs a hand through his hair again and muffles the urge to shove Valjean out the open window. Valjean is a constant tax on his very limited patience. This is probably the most he has spoken to Valjean uninterrupted and it leaves him feeling strangely vulnerable. He didn’t intend to say so much.

“For the love of God, Valjean, let me do my damn job,” he mutters. “If I had my way, that girl would have faced the consequences of her actions and learned that there is no benefit to theft.”

“She looked like Cosette,” Valjean says quietly.

“Cosette is not that tall and Cosette is not blonde,” Javert growls at him. “You have given your daughter a good life and I doubt she would ever be involved in something like this. Stop worrying.”

Valjean is silent and Javert examines the grappling hook on the window. A damn grappling hook. What is this; an action movie? If this was her first heist as Valjean suspected, then maybe that explains why she’s using outdated equipment. Still, it’s effective. At least it’s evidence and maybe he can get something from—

Valjean takes his hand and Javert startles at the unexpected contact.

“Thank you for sharing with me,” Valjean says.

“What the hell do you think I was doing all these years? Did you think I do this for kicks?” Javert asks sarcastically.

“I never thought about it,” Valjean says again. “I wish I had.”

“Well, now you know,” Javert grumbles.

Valjean still hasn’t released his hand and Javert hasn’t told him to let go.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse for being so late. (Well, I do, but none of them are legitimate enough.) This is exactly why I never post actual WIPs. My writing schedule is all over the place and unless I have the chapters all ready to go, I can't promise an update schedule or even if I'll finish the thing. I absolutely wanted this to be finished though, as I was so damn close. 
> 
> This chapter was mostly finished, but there were many parts of it I wasn't happy with and I ended up going through several revisions before I was happy with it. Hopefully, you all will be happy with them as well!

Sometimes Valjean is asked to consult with museums about ways to increase security. It’s annoying that Valjean’s name has spread further that Javert’s own when he’s a criminal. Still, it’s a worthy cause and Valjean wants to go and he drags Javert with him.

“What about the skylight?” Javert asks. “I know you’ve used one before.”

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Valjean says. He’s frowning, which means he thinks Javert’s suggestion is bad. He’s too polite to say so directly, but he’s not hard to read. Valjean isn’t good at keeping his emotions off his face. He would be a terrible con artist.

Javert crosses his arms and sighs, waiting for Valjean’ verdict.

“The windows on the south side are easily accessible from the roof of the next building over,” Valjean says after walking around the museum a couple of times. “Also, I could use a grappling hook to—“

“I can’t believe you use one of those,” Javert mutters.

“It works,” Valjean says. “It’s easier than free climbing a four-story building like this.”

“Please say you haven’t done that,” Javert says, doing his best to avoid looking as horrified as he feels.

“I... haven’t done that?” Valjean says, obviously lying.

“You have no regard for your own safety, do you?” Javert says with a scowl.

“Are you saying you’re worried about me?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Valjean smiles at him and Javert is forced to look away, frown plastered on his face and arms crossed over his chest. It would not do to have Valjean thinking he cares.

—

‘ _I want to take you to dinner_ ,’ Valjean’s newest post-it says.

“No,” Javert replies. He doesn’t even look at him over his monitor anymore. Valjean is annoying.

“Please?” Valjean asks.

Javert scowls at his computer. “Don’t you have something you should be doing? Like work?”

He doesn’t even have to look at Valjean to know he’s rolling his eyes.

“There isn’t any work,” he says.

“There is always work,” Javert replies.

“You’re a workaholic.”

“You say that’s not a bad thing.”

Valjean is silent for a moment. Then, more insistent, “Please?”

“No,” Javert growls again. “Stop asking me.”

Valjean falls quiet, but Javert doesn’t hear him typing anything and prepares himself for another damn post-it note. He can’t go even a single day without Valjean sticking shit on the sides of his monitor. Once Valjean had brought in actual stickers, star-shaped shiny ones that would be more appropriate for children than for an FBI agent, and “decorated” his computer. It took half an hour and a large portion of Goo Gone to return it to its natural pristine state. He yelled at Valjean the entire time he was prying the damn things off and Valjean only smiled annoyingly at him.

Indeed, Valjean has drawn a picture of two dogs eating spaghetti, one of them with bristly fur on the sides of its face. It doesn’t make any sense to him and it’s not in Valjean’s normal style, meaning it’s probably a pop culture reference.

“Dogs don’t eat spaghetti,” Javert says. He crumples it with one hand and throws it at Valjean’s head. It’s a skill he’s mastered in the last few months.

“How have you not seen Lady and the Tramp?” Valjean asks, not bothered in the least by Javert’s retaliation. “It’s a Disney classic.”

“I don’t watch films,” Javert answers. He’s still attempting research and has long since figured out a way of keeping Valjean at bay while keeping most of his focus on his work.

He still doesn’t hear Valjean typing.

‘ _Can we take a walk?_ ’ Valjean’s next post it says. He’s drawn the approximation of a park underneath it.

“No one is stopping you,” Javert answers.

‘ _Come with me?_ ’ Valjean’s next stupid post-it says. This time he’s drawn one of those kiosks that sells coffee-- the good stuff that’s not whatever shit the office uses.

Javert sighs. Valjean knows his weakness and it’s irritating.

“Fine. You’re buying,” he growls.

Valjean beams at him and Javert resists the urge to flip him off in the office. That would be unprofessional.

—

The first time Valjean leaves the three-mile radius he’s allowed, Javert wants to kill him. He follows the GPS tracker data and swears at every traffic light and every damn pedestrian and manages to catch up to Valjean in half an hour. When he looks at where he is, Javert decides to kill him slowly.

It’s a gallery. A very familiar gallery, and Javert finally remembers why the name Madeleine is so familiar.

He makes his way through the gallery full of people to where the GPS tracker says Valjean is. Gallery shows have always been an annoyance to him and this one is no different. He is by far the most underdressed person in the room and definitely the most pissed off.

“What the hell is this,” Javert hisses once he finally finds Valjean in the throng of people.

“Javert,” he says with a kind smile like he didn’t just break one of the rules imposed on him. “I’m glad you made it.”

He’s dressed nicely, for once, and even wearing a tie. Said tie is ugly as sin, but it’s the first time Javert has seen him in anything other than business casual. Very casual in Valjean’s case.

Second time, technically. Javert has met Madeleine before, in this very gallery, many years ago when he was inquiring about Valjean’s own forgeries. He didn’t recognize Madeleine in his fine clothes and distant demeanor when by all rights he should have. Realizing it now, so many years later, is incredibly maddening. No wonder Valjean thought he knew about his damn gallery.

“Why are you here?” Javert asks between clenched teeth. He wants to strangle Valjean with his own awful tie.

“I have to be here,” Valjean says in that same conversational tone. “It’s my annual show. All the proceeds will go to funding arts programs in impoverished communities.”

Of course they do. He shouldn’t be surprised. This is Valjean, after all.

“Mr. Madeleine,” someone says, approaching Valjean. He takes his hand and shakes it very thoroughly. “Thank you so much for your generous donation.”

“It’s my pleasure,” Valjean says with a small smile. The expression is gone in an instant and doesn’t linger like the smiles he gives Javert.

Javert crosses his arms and tries not to snarl at him in public at Valjean continuing to use a false name. He also tries not to feel smug about the duration of Valjean’s smiles. He fails at the second.

“We’re leaving,” Javert mutters after the man wanders back into the crowd.

“Give me another half hour or so,” Valjean answers.

“Why should I?” Javert growls. “You shouldn’t even be here at all.”

Valjean looks away, watching people move between paintings. “I’m known to be a recluse, but this is for charity. It’s important that I be present. Do you want the grand tour?”

“No,” Javert says. “I hate art.”

Valjean drags him along anyway and Javert only gives a token protest. There are quite a few paintings of everyday life in the city, and most are set in Central Park. They’re very good; even if Javert doesn’t appreciate art he can recognize the skill in each one. There is one painting that draws his attention of a bridge over water. It’s a very familiar bridge, and Javert is forced to take a calming breath so he doesn’t murder Valjean with so many witnesses around.

“Did you paint this before or after you saw me?” Javert hisses between clenched teeth.

“Both,” Valjean answers. “I only saw you because I was working on that and needed another reference shot.”

Javert says nothing to that. It’s been two years and he still doesn’t know how he feels about Valjean’s portrait of him.

Valjean prattles on for the next half hour, taking Javert by the elbow to bring him along. Javert follows unwillingly and tolerates Valjean’s talk and the hand on his arm. They get more than a few looks and Javert ignores them.

When at last they finally leave, Javert drags him to his car and starts driving.

“You should have let me know where you were going,” Javert says irritably. “You do realize that you left your limits?”

“Yes,” Valjean answers. He’s looking into his lap and fiddling with the end of his god-awful tie.

“Damn it, Valjean,” Javert snarls. “Do you know how many hours it took me to even get your work-release approved?  How much effort? Are you _asking_ to go back to prison?”

Valjean is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “I didn’t know you cared so much.”

“I don’t,” Javert snaps back at him. “You drive me insane.”

Valjean doesn’t respond and they drive in silence for a few minutes.

“I don’t want to have to visit you in prison again,” Javert says eventually. The quiet is unnerving. “It’s a pain to drive out there and you look awful with a beard.”

“I won’t do it again without telling you,” Valjean says. “I didn’t think you would want to go.”

“Of course I didn’t want to go,” Javert grumbles. “You’re an idiot for pulling this kind of stunt. I only went because you need supervision outside of your limits.”

“Would you go again?”

Javert glares at him. “You would do it anyway, with or without my supervision.”

Valjean takes his hand over the center console at the next red light.

“I hate you,” Javert says.

He doesn’t stop Valjean from lacing their fingers together.

—

They continue taking cases and Valjean is more helpful than not. Javert can’t argue that taking Valjean out of prison was a bad thing for his case records when Valjean never hesitates to point out a forgery or a means of entry. Still, Valjean can be absolutely infuriating.

“Oh,” Valjean says when he first sees the painting from their latest case. He blinks several times, as if surprised to see it.

“What?” Javert asks irritably.

“It’s definitely a forgery,” Valjean says, sounding somewhat dazed.

“How can you possibly know that?” Javert asks. It’s been all of thirty seconds; surely not enough time to—

“It’s, ah,” Valjean says, looking sheepish. “It’s mine.”

Javert takes a moment of silence to force himself to breathe. It’s difficult.

“Where the hell is the original?” Javert explodes at him.

“At this point? I don’t know,” Valjean answers. “I sold it to a fence years ago.”

“Years, Valjean?” Javert asks, his voice rising. “How long has this forgery been sitting here?”

Valjean winces. “Maybe four or five years?”

He’s going to murder Valjean someday and no one will ever find his killer.

—

Valjean can be brutal when he wants to be. Somehow, Javert forgot this.

“Holy shit, Valjean,” Javert says, looking at Valjean’s assailant. Valjean hardly has a scratch on him, apart from his fists. They’re raw in some places and will need attention later, but at this point Javert is more concerned about the man on the ground with a split lip and what’s certain to be a broken nose. A gun is on the floor, clearly kicked away from the scene. Valjean hates guns. He hates anything violent.

Valjean lowers his fists at Javert’s voice, blinking as if seeing the scene before him for the first time. He takes a step away, looking two seconds away from bolting.

“Is this your work?” Javert asks. He knows it is. Valjean wasn’t stationed that far away from him.

“I—“ Valjean says, like he’s as astounded as Javert is. “I think I got carried away.”

Javert doesn’t disagree. “I didn’t know you still had it in you.”

Valjean chuckles weakly. “It’s not something you can lose.” He attempts a smile, but it’s clearly forced and disappears quickly. “I hoped I had lost it.”

“Well,” Javert says, looking at the gun on the floor, “things could have gone worse.”

“He was going to shoot you,” Valjean says.

Javert doesn’t know how he feels about Valjean beating the shit out of someone who wished him harm. He should probably thank him. Javert isn’t great at thanking people, Valjean especially.

“He didn’t,” Javert says. That sounds stupid. He clears his throat and opens his mouth, but the words don’t come. He looks away and instead says, “I’ll make sure that this doesn’t become a mark against you.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Valjean says. His arms hang limp at his sides.

“He had a gun and was prepared to use it,” Javert says irritably. “You did what you had to do.”

“I didn’t have to do _this!”_ He gestures to the beaten man on the floor, self-disgust on his face. “It’s like... it’s like the last twenty years didn’t happen.”

“You’re being an idiot,” Javert tells him.

“Javert, I could have killed him!” Valjean runs both hands through his hair and takes a shuddering breath. “I thought I wasn’t like this anymore.”

Javert doesn’t know what to say to that. He doesn’t comfort people. He doesn’t know _how_ to comfort people. That’s entirely Valjean’s area.

“I’ll get someone else to cuff this guy,” Javert says. Clearly Valjean is distressed by his own actions and staying here isn’t going to do anything productive. “Let’s go. I have a first aid kit in my car. Your hands need to be looked at.”

Valjean hesitates, looks down at the unconscious man, then follows without a word.

Javert sits him down in the passenger seat of Javert’s car with the door open and fishes his first aid kit out of his trunk. “Let me see your hands.”

“I can do it myself,” Valjean protests.

“Give me your damn hands, Valjean,” Javert growls.

Valjean holds out his hands obligingly. As always, there’s flecks of paint on his fingers and charcoal darkening the creases of his palms. Also, as always, his hands are warm and calloused and comforting. Javert tries not to think about those parts. It’s distracting.

“You’re a menace and I hate you,” Javert tells him mildly as he dabs Valjean’s split knuckles with disinfectant. He isn’t exactly gentle, but Valjean makes no complaints.

“You should,” Valjean says quietly. “I nearly killed him.”

“But you didn’t,” Javert points out.

“He has to go to the hospital, Javert!” Valjean’s hands tense in his own, like the want to clench into fists once more. “I swore that I would leave that kind of violence behind me.”

Javert doesn’t know what to say to that, so he says nothing. The night is cold and his knees are killing him already from kneeling on asphalt, but he takes his time wrapping Valjean’s hands in gauze to the best of his ability.

“Do you remember when I broke parole?” Valjean finally asks, breaking the silence.

Javert sets Valjean’s wrapped hand on his knee and starts on the other. “Of course I do. I spent more money on alcohol that week than I ever have in my life.”

Valjean doesn’t smile. “I was terrible. I would have continued being forceful and selfish if I hadn’t met a great man.”

Javert keeps his attention focused on wrapping Valjean’s knuckles and says nothing. Valjean will probably tell his story in full if he gives him the space to do so, and Javert can’t lie to himself and say he isn’t interested in what changed Valjean from the brute he was to the philanthropist he is now.

“I stole the silver from a church after being granted refuge,” Valjean confesses. “I was caught quickly, but when I was brought back to the church I was forgiven. The priest who had given me food and shelter forgave me, giving me the silver I had stolen as a gift. He said he bought my soul for God and I promised that I would change my ways, and I did.” He smiles miserably. “I haven’t changed enough, apparently.”

“You have,” Javert says with a scowl.

“I wanted to kill him, Javert,” Valjean says. “I’ve done it before.”

“You haven’t,” Javert says. He knows Valjean’s record like the back of his hand. “You’re a thief, not a murderer.”

Valjean does not give any sign that he heard him. “I tried so hard to change,” Valjean nearly whispers. “I don’t want to hurt people anymore.”

Javert doesn’t know what to say to that, his hands hesitating over Valjean’s bandaged knuckles. Valjean looks like a wreck, even if his hands are the only part of him that took a beating. His eyes are red and his wide shoulders are slumped and lifeless.

“Why did you continue to steal?” Javert asks instead.

“A traditional life doesn’t suit me,” Valjean says with a tired shrug. “I made several new identities for myself because I couldn’t bear the thought of going back to prison. I figured I could put my other skills to use for a good cause, without violence.”

“Stealing isn’t a good cause,” Javert replied automatically. “Being a pain in my ass for twenty years isn’t a good cause.”

“Only you think that.” His lips are curved in what could almost be a smile.

Javert huffs and raises an eyebrow. “It’s because you irritate me and have always irritated me.”

“So you’ve said.”

Javert releases Valjean’s hands, somewhat pleased with his work. It’s somewhat clumsy but Javert isn’t an EMT. He’s never had to dress anyone’s wounds but his own before. Looking behind him, he sees that the thief and her unconscious partner are in custody. He really doesn’t need to be there anymore.

“Come on,” Javert says, packing up his first aid kit again and standing up. His knees are killing him from kneeling on asphalt. “It’s late and I’m starving.”

Valjean blinks at the change of subject. “Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t know,” Javert answers. “Whatever’s open. Probably Denny’s.”

“Denny’s is fine,” Valjean says distantly.

“I’m paying,” Javert says as he climbs into the driver’s seat. He still doesn’t trust Valjean to drive. He probably drives terribly.

“No, I can—“

“Fuck you, Valjean,” Javert says without malice. “I’m not the one who beat the shit out of someone with a gun. That was completely irresponsible of you. I’m paying.”

A small smile appears on Valjean’s face and his cheeks flush pink. “If you insist.”

Javert scowls at him.

“I hate you.”

—

They still get odd looks from other people in the office on occasion. It’s because Valjean is annoying and Javert tolerates his bullshit more than he does for anyone else. It’s not a difficult deduction. Almost everything Valjean does would never be acceptable if anyone else attempted it.

Sometimes said looks come from Chabouillet, who only watches them in amusement and gives Javert a knowing look. Javert ignores him. It’s none of his business what his relationship is with Valjean is anyway. At this point, even Javert doesn’t know what they would be called. Sometimes Valjean reaches for his hand and most of the time Javert lets him, and occasionally Valjean still breaks into his apartment and makes him dinner despite the fact that Javert changed his locks again, and always he leaves notes and drawings on his monitor and Javert reads each and every one of the stupid things.

—

“Do you think Cosette should take piano lessons?” Valjean asks him out of the blue one day. “She’s expressed interest and she already sings in her school choir.”

“Why does it matter what I think?” Javert asks.

They’re in the park, again, on a bench while Javert drinks coffee that Valjean bought him, again.

“Because she likes you,” Valjean says simply.

“That’s not a good reason,” Javert says.

Valjean is quiet for a moment, looking at his feet. “Because I like you?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?” Javert asks, mostly to see Valjean’s flush. Valjean isn’t looking at him to see the amusement that crosses his face. “I know.”

“Oh,” Valjean says. He nearly sounds disappointed.

Javert sighs because Valjean is an idiot. Then he takes Valjean’s hand discreetly, hiding it between them on the bench. They’re already sitting close enough to each other that their shoulders brush and they are in public. Javert refuses to show any kind of affection in public. It’s nauseating. However, holding Valjean’s hand like this isn’t awful.

“It’s still not a good reason,” Javert says, drinking his coffee.

Valjean is silent, looking at him in surprise.

“What?” Javert asks irritably.

“I didn’t expect you to—“

“Shut up,” Javert says. “I still hate you.”

Valjean laughs, his shoulders pressing against Javert’s a little more. “Look at us,” he says, smiling. “What a pair we are.”

“Indeed,” Javert says.

—

“Those are bad for you, you know,” Valjean says, looking at the cigarette in Javert’s hand.

“I am aware,” Javert answers. He takes a long drag anyway, breathing the smoke out the window like always.

Valjean frowns, nose wrinkling at the smell of cigarette smoke. “Have you ever thought about quitting?”

“Not really,” Javert answers. He’s never had a reason to quit.

He buys nicotine patches the next time he’s out and tells himself that he’s not doing this for Valjean.

—

“What the _fuck_ did you think you were doing?”

Valjean gives him an all too familiar look of guilt. His hair is wildly windswept and his clothes are torn and dirtied beyond repair. Javert sees that he’s hiding a limp and it only fuels his anger.

“I was only trying to—"

“Trying to help?” Javert finishes for him. He’s furious. He’s beyond furious. “What part of ‘ _stay here’_ did you not understand?”

“Javert—”

“I asked one thing of you! One fucking thing!” Javert snarls. “Is it really so damn hard to obey instructions? Must you continuously test my patience?”

Valjean flinches, shrinking away from him.

“You stole a car, breaking God knows how many traffic laws, boarded a train, and then fucking _jumped off a moving train_.” The urge to wring Valjean’s neck right here and now is nearly overwhelming, damn the murder charges. “You could have blown the whole operation!”

“He would have gotten away,” Valjean defends. “I know how long you’ve spent on this case. I couldn’t let him go when—”

“I don’t fucking care about the case!” Javert shouts. Too many times, Valjean has recklessly put himself directly in harm’s way only to somehow survive in the nick of time. He can’t take Valjean doing this to him anymore.

Valjean’s expression turns into one of confusion. “What do you—”

Javert grabs him roughly by the hair and slams their mouths together. He doesn’t care that they’re in sight of other agents and the criminal in question. The image of Valjean leaping off the train pursued by thugs is burned into his mind. Every time he does something like this it takes years off Javert’s life. Fucking Valjean and his stupidly reckless martyr mindset.

Valjean makes a noise of surprise and Javert just tightens his grip. Valjean’s lips are dry and taste faintly of dust, which is of no surprise considering he _jumped off a fucking train_ just minutes ago. He feels Valjean’s hands on his Kevlar vest, keeping them together as Valjean starts responding to the kiss. He’s not very good at this, but admittedly neither is Javert. What a pair of fools they are.

“I hate you so fucking much,” Javert says, pulling back. He’s still scowling “Are you trying to give me a heart attack Jean?”

Valjean blinks, his hands clutching at Javert a little bit tighter. “No?” he says hesitantly.

Javert kisses him again, partly because he can and partly because he’s still furious at him. He can feel Valjean smiling against his lips and pulls away with another scowl.

“Stop that,” he growls.

“Stop what?” Valjean asks innocently.

“Stop smiling when I’m trying to kiss you."

Valjean only smiles more.

“God, I hate you,” Javert mutters. “Don’t ever jump off a train again.”

“No promises,” Valjean says. He’s entirely too happy for someone who could have died not ten minutes ago.

Javert scowls at him, then turns abruptly and goes back to doing his damn job with Valjean trotting at his heals.

—

Valjean doesn’t seem to mind Javert refusing to show any kind of public affection, content to take his hand discreetly on occasion or warm his cold feet under Javert’s thigh on his couch. The first earns him rolled eyes at his sentimentality and the second earns him scowls and complaints about how Valjean should at least wear some damn socks if he’s so cold. Yet he rarely stops him from doing either.

“I just had a thought,” Valjean says, abruptly looking up from his sketchbook. His cold feet have yet to creep the last few inches on the couch and Javert fully expects him to warm them against Javert’s legs again, and he’s probably sketching Javert. He’s predictable like that.

Javert tears his eyes away from his laptop to look at him. Valjean almost never stops drawing even as he speaks, and yet the sound of scratching pencil on paper has stopped.

“You aren’t a convicted criminal,” Valjean informs him.

“Obviously,” Javert says in a deadpan. “Why are you telling me things I already know?”

“Can you adopt Cosette?”

Javert blinks, as he never once considered being a parent in any way. Technically, he probably could adopt Cosette. Valjean has been very good with following his rules, save for that singular time he went out as Madeleine, and Chabouillet certainly knows what’s between him if his annoyingly smug smiles are anything to go by. Hell, Chabouillet might even back him. He’s always been insufferable about Javert having a life outside of work.

“I... don’t see why not,” Javert answers hesitantly.

Valjean looks at him hopefully and Javert is too blindsided to remind himself to scowl at him, instead staring blankly into space. Him, the orphan boy Javert, a _parent_ \-- at least in the eyes of the law. It’s ridiculous, and yet Javert can see the love between Valjean and his daughter even though the restrictions placed on him. Valjean looks forwards to Saturdays spent with Cosette while Javert tries not to be present, although it’s inevitable that the both of him drag him into their conversations.

“I’ll consider it,” Javert says some time later.  

Valjean beams at him and Javert scowls.

“Fuck off,” Javert mutters.

Valjean sticks his cold feet under his thigh and Javert doesn’t complain even once.

—

He returns home one day to a binder sitting innocently on his coffee table.

“No,” he says immediately.

“Why not?” Valjean asks from the kitchen. He’s doing something with a tape measure and his sketchbook and Javert refuses to ask.

“First off, theft is illegal,” Javert says.

“That didn’t stop us before.”

Javert hates that Valjean grouped them together like that.

“Second, you could go back to prison for life if you were caught,” Javert continues.

“You are the only one who could catch me,” Valjean says.

Unfortunately, he’s correct. They wouldn’t even be suspected if they could find a way to recover the original painting without leading it back to themselves. Javert’s reputation as an agent has never once wavered, even with Valjean attaching himself like a leach.

Valjean, damn him, noticed him hesitating and sits on the couch to open the binder.

“This woman here,” Valjean says, pointing to the page.

Javert sighs and goes to sit beside him. Valjean won’t let this go until he presents his case to Javert anyway. Annoyingly, Valjean reaches for his hand immediately and annoyingly Javert doesn’t want to pull away.

“She runs a somewhat legal sweatshop and employs illegal aliens to work for her fashion industry, supposedly so they can afford a visa,” Valjean continues.

“I’m going to assume none of them have received a visa, and that the work conditions and pay are inhumane,” Javert says. He hates that Valjean drags him into these things. He hates that, sometimes, Valjean is right.

Valjean nods, a tired smile crossing his face at his correct guesses. “I know they’re technically not legal citizens...”

“Which is exactly why she targets them,” Javert finishes, with an irritated sigh. Of course Valjean wants to help those who are suffering, those who need a bit of help to stand on their own two feet. No one can escape his kindness and mercy, save for these perpetrators of injustice regardless of the fact that sometimes they fall on the barest edges of what’s considered legal.

Javert can’t tell him no on this, or Valjean might go rob her on his own. If he was caught, he would certainly see nothing but the inside of a prison cell for the rest of his life. It would be incredibly irritating if all Javert’s work would go to waste if Valjean were caught. Especially since he’s entertaining the thought of adopting Valjean’s daughter.

Valjean is watching him, awaiting his verdict. His eyes are kind, as always, and his hands are warm, as always.

He is annoying, as always.

Before he can think better of it, Javert takes him by the hair and kisses him, hating how he can’t bring himself to hate Valjean for dragging him into this ridiculous scheme of his. Valjean’s lips are warm and he holds fast to Javert’s hand. It’s a far more pleasant way to stop being irritated at Valjean than simply snapping at him. Valjean brings a kind hand to his face, not minding Javert’s bristly sideburns. He never seems to mind the ugliest parts of Javert; the parts of him that are cruel and callous because it’s all he’s ever known. He gives himself over to Valjean, knowing that this has always been inevitable and their decades-long dance has finally come to an end. Valjean holds Javert heart in his hands; a heart Javert was unaware he possessed until Valjean forced it to life. Javert can’t bring himself to hate the changes Valjean has inspired in him.

Javert pulls them apart after several moments to find Valjean smiling at him with true happiness in his eyes.

“I hate you,” he says, attempting to scowl at Valjean. He is afraid he fails. There is entirely too much ridiculousness that he allows Valjean to pull him into.

Valjean smile widens at the familiar proclamation.

“Fine,” Javert says, still scowling. He sighs, looking back at the binder. “Let’s go break the law one more time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and then Javert adopted Cosette and they lived happily ever after, even if they occasionally broke the law. 
> 
> I cannot give enough thanks to Leverage for being such a good show and such a wonderful inspiration. Ten thumbs up. Please go watch it. Also thanks White Collar, for letting me steal your plot device.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! (And for your patience!) <3


End file.
